


Trapped in Amber

by heffalumps



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, I call it a glacial pace, Slow Burn, Some might call this a, The glacier has landed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:07:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 99,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2821391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heffalumps/pseuds/heffalumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Herald is a mage. Her very presence puts Cullen on edge, and yet he finds himself inexplicably drawn to her. As Cullen and the Herald get to know each other, their mutual distrust turns into friendship, which turns into something more - forcing Cullen to confront his past and decide his future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gold

**Author's Note:**

> WIP. Feedback always appreciated, and definitely looking for any constructive criticism!

She had a gaze eerily reminiscent of a feral cat; the amber of her eyes was so bright it glowed a pure yellow in the candlelight surrounding the war table. It was a forceful gaze - the way she looked at him seemed to challenge him, as if daring him to contradict her very being. The effect of that piercing stare was strangely at odds with the soft features of the rest of her face; her lips were a feminine curve of pink set below a button nose, and her hair was piled in a delicate array of golden blonde curls on the back of her head. A few strands had come loose to frame her face, contrasting with the golden brown freckles speckling her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She seemed to almost glow in shades of gold in the dim light. The Herald of Andraste.

Her magic rolled off her in waves, making the air ripple around him. Even now, when she wasn’t casting, it was clear to him that she was a mage of great talent. It had been a long time since Cullen had felt magical power equal to hers, and he tensed immediately, his hand on his sword hilt and his weight shifting automatically towards her. His days as a templar may be over, but some things never fade. Wariness of magic was deeply ingrained in his backbone. As Cullen subconsciously braced himself for a fight, he saw the mage do the same in turn. He could feel her eyes boring into him, assessing his position, trying to spot his weaknesses before he found hers. She knew he was a templar. She could feel his instinctive animosity just as he could feel hers.

“Commander Cullen, this is our Lady Herald, Amalia Trevelyan,” Cassandra, the Lady Seeker, had walked into the room behind the Herald and proceeded to make introductions, apparently oblivious to the tension in the room. Cullen forced his teeth to unclench and leaned back, breathing deeply through his nose to loosen his muscles. There was no danger here, he reminded himself. He dragged his lips into a slight smile and nodded his head towards the Herald. “It’s a pleasure, Lady Trevelyan.” Cassandra nodded in approval at his formality, though her strong brow furrowed slightly as she finally picked up on the atmosphere of the room.

The Herald loosened her own posture in response to his cordial greeting and nodded slightly, her lips curving up to one side in a darkly humorous acknowledgment of their silent standoff. “I’ve heard much about you, Lord Commander,” she replied in turn. Cullen was immediately taken aback by her voice – he’d irrationally expected it to come out a feral snarl. It was, in fact, far softer than he’d imagined: feminine to the extreme, with a cultured accent that revealed her highborn heritage, if her surname hadn’t done so already. He raised his eyebrows, and her entire body tightened again in response, wary of his every movement. It further intensified her reminiscence to a feline predator.

“If you two are quite finished…” Cassandra remarked dryly, perhaps trying to diffuse the tension in her own way. “Lady Herald, there are still two councilors for you to meet.” The mage immediately shifted her gaze from Cullen, and it was all he could do to not sigh in relief. Having those yellow eyes fixed on him was surprisingly unnerving. “This is Sister Leliana, our spymaster,” Cassandra continued with the tour.

Leliana had been standing back, away from the halo of light emitted by the war table’s candles. She stepped forward now, her eyes darting back and forth between the Commander and the Herald. Cullen almost sighed again. Far be it from Leliana to leave anything unnoticed. Undoubtedly, the spymaster had been anticipating numerous scenarios that could play out between him and the Herald – not forgetting, of course, to meticulously plan her reaction to each. Leliana was nothing if not prepared. The spymaster bowed her head slightly towards the Herald, a small smile playing on her lips. She was  _ amused _ by Cullen’s reaction. The notion irritated him slightly, but he brushed the feeling aside. Leliana knew he was still working to rid himself of many of his old templar habits. Leliana also knew that he had a long way to go.

“And this,” continued Cassandra, after the Herald had returned Leliana’s nod and suspicious glance, “is our ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet. She coordinates our relations with any other powers we come into contact with.”

Josephine smiled, waving her fingers behind her clipboard in a small gesture of greeting. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Trevelyan,” Josephine said, bowing her head in a motion that echoed Leliana’s from a moment before. The corner of Cullen’s mouth turned up in a small smile at that – Leliana and Josephine were nearly inseparable, and he knew that Josephine looked up to Leliana as an older sister. Often, he noticed her following Leliana’s lead whenever she was anxious. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one that was somewhat nervous meeting their new comrade. Was  _ comrade _ even the right term for the Herald? Cassandra had said that she was willing to cooperate with them, at least.

Almost as if sensing his train of thought, the Seeker leaned forward, placing her hands on the war table and looking at each of the others in turn. “I have promised to brief the Herald on the Inquisition’s position, mission and plan. She has agreed to help us.”

The Herald, who had been hanging back and sizing up the situation before moving closer, took a step towards the war table behind Cassandra and nodded in assent. Her eyes burned bright with determination. Cullen assumed she had more reason to hate that breach than anyone. It had almost killed her, after all. 

He had heard she didn’t remember anything of the moments leading up to her simply falling out of the green fracture in the sky. Cullen wondered for a moment if it were true - or if there was something she wasn’t telling them. He silently chided himself for his thoughts, recognizing them as tainted with both his feelings toward her as a mage and the chaos the world had fallen into. They had all counted on the Conclave to end the war, but now, it seemed only to have begun a different one. 

But who was the enemy who had taken this chance for peace from them? The rebel mages? Some danger lurking in the shadows that they couldn’t even name? Or… the woman standing here before him? The thought gave Cullen pause - of course, it was easiest to place blame at the feet of the most readily available party. He knew many had fallen into that trap, and he had promised himself he would not do so. He had decided that he would give her the benefit of the doubt Cassandra and Leliana had demanded of him. After all, they reasoned, Lady Trevelyan had nearly killed herself attempting to close the breach mere hours after she had fallen out of it. She should have earned some measure of the Inquisition’s - and by extension his - trust by her actions.

But it was all too fresh. The world was still reeling from the loss of the Conclave; the green rift above their heads was the only thing left to mark the site of what should have been diplomacy’s greatest triumph. 

Cullen didn’t even know what the unnatural green fractal was - nor did anyone else, save for Solas. The bald elven mage had showed up in the chaos following the explosion and explained that the fracture in the sky was actually a tear in the veil between this world and the Fade. Cullen didn’t trust him - but, at the same time, the explanation he offered was the only one available. The very thought of it sent shivers running up and down Cullen’s spine. 

In the past three days, Cullen and his men had searched up and down the mountainside surrounding the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes, desperate to find any survivors - and with them, some answers to the burning questions on everyone’s lips. To find some explanation for everything that had happened. But they hadn’t found a single living soul apart from Amalia Trevelyan. Just what she was doing there and why she had survived she had not been able to explain - nor had she any more answers than anyone else.

And even Lady Trevelyan wasn’t quite as she had been before the explosion. Cullen glanced at the mage’s hands, but they were covered with gloves – he wasn’t even sure which hand it was that held the Mark. The Mark that was part of the reason Lady Trevelyan had been named the Herald of Andraste by so many… and a heretic and false prophet by others. Cullen wasn’t quite sure what he thought about that, either. Would Andraste take part in such horrors? Why would she have saved this so-called Herald, and not her own Divine? It didn’t make any sense to Cullen - but, then again, perhaps it didn’t need to. Perhaps they were right, and Lady Trevelyan truly was the Herald. The Mark could be a divine gift, something to help them rend order from the chaos that had erupted in the wake of the Conclave. It was able to close the rifts, after all, even if not the breach.

Though not for lack of trying on the Herald’s part. She had nearly died in the attempt, and had spent the last three days in a comatose state, carefully monitored by Solas. He had pulled her through, though, and here she stood before them: so vibrantly and fiercely alive that he somehow doubted a mere breach in the veil would be able to kill her.

“Herald, you must understand that the Inquisition is still a fledgling organization,” Cassandra had apparently been talking for a while. 

Cullen snapped himself out of his reverie to concentrate on the discussion, but his eyes still lingered on the Herald’s hands. Just then, her right hand clenched into a fist, and he looked up to see Lady Trevelyan staring back at him, defiance written all across her expressive features. Cullen tried to soften his gaze, forcing a small smile onto his lips. He had promised Cassandra and Leliana that he would give her the benefit of the doubt, after all. That benefit must stand, no matter what his personal feelings about her were. A basic requirement was to be courteous to his new comrade in arms - and he should certainly know better than to scrutinize her so indiscreetly. Any mage under the studying gaze of even a former templar was bound to feel ill at ease. 

“My Lady Herald?” Cassandra, a little late once again, tugged Lady Trevelyan back to their conversation from her renewed standoff with Cullen.

“Yes, Cassandra. I’m sorry, I was… distracted.” Releasing Cullen from her gaze, the Herald turned to the Seeker. She bestowed the other woman with a smile, clearly more comfortable with the Seeker than with Cullen. “I understand that the Inquisition is small. You’ve only just formed, after all.”

“Quite,” Cassandra said, sounding dry again. It seemed to be the Seeker’s favored tone of voice, especially of late. “We’re seeking to build our forces to counter the threat of the breach and to bring some kind of reason back the world. With the mages and templars openly at war, the head of the Chantry dead and Orlais locked in a civil war, there seems to be no authority with the will or the resources to tackle the breach. This is where we come in. The Chantry has, of course, denounced us, citing that your claim to be the Herald of Andraste is heresy.”

“I never claimed to be the Herald,” the Herald sighed, rolling her eyes in the slightest of motions. “It’s not a title I feel entitled to, want, or need.”

Interesting.

“Be that as it may,” Leliana began quietly. “We have most certainly not discouraged the rumor from spreading.”

“We saw you fall out of the breach, alive when no one else was – and those who saw it claim that there was a woman standing behind you,” Josephine added. “The people want to think it is Andraste. And you can close the rifts…”

“The Inquisition could benefit a great deal from the people regarding you as a prophet sent by the Maker,” Leliana elaborated with a sly smile. “It’s a better explanation for what has happened than anyone else has been able to offer, and we want to be the ones to offer it.”

Josephine nodded in approval even as the Herald scoffed slightly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She seemed uncomfortable with the notion of being labeled a prophet – not that Cullen could blame her. He found himself relieved to hear that she didn’t want the title that had been placed on her shoulders.

Lady Trevelyan changed tack - smoothly, but abruptly enough that Cullen could tell she didn’t wish the discuss the previous subject further. “And so the plan is to gather forces and influence so we’re ready to counter the breach and whoever is behind it? That sounds simple enough.”

“The plan may be simple on paper, but I’m not entirely sure it prove quite as simple to execute,” Cullen warned. “We have been denounced by the Chantry. We don’t have enough influence as an organization to approach the templars for assistance, even if they were willing to help us. We have nowhere to turn for support.”

“I beg your pardon for disagreeing, Commander.” Josephine always seemed a little smug when she was able to best Cullen at something, and he huffed quietly at the self-satisfaction in her tone now. “We have been approached by a certain Mother of the Chantry who wishes to meet with Lady Trevelyan. She is currently working in the Hinterlands, helping anyone inconvenienced by the war. She has asked the Herald to come meet with her. She may give us the key to approaching the Chantry. And there are still the mages to be considered, of course. They may wish to help.”

“The mages? The  _ rebel _ mages?” Cullen asked, disbelieving. “You cannot be serious.”

“This conversation can wait,” Cassandra interrupted. “We must decide if we will accept this offer to meet with the Revered Mother.”

“I doubt it is wise to turn down any offer of assistance,” Josephine said. “The Commander is right - our list of allies is not very long.”

“I suppose I shall answer the summons and travel to the Hinterlands,” Lady Trevelyan said. Cullen could’ve almost sworn he heard some annoyance in her tone. He got the distinct impression that this was not a woman used to taking orders. “It’s a start, at least.” The addendum was spoken in a much softer cadence, a change so sudden it left Cullen unsure if he had imagined her annoyance before.

“I’ll come with you,” Cassandra offered with a nod of approval. It was an unsurprising offer – the Seeker was not one to sit around and wait for someone else to do the legwork. “We will take Solas with us. He is knowledgeable about the breach. He could be an asset should there be trouble.”  _ That _ was surprising. The Seeker, much like Cullen himself, had shown nothing but distrust towards the elven mage thus far. The circumstances of his arrival had been far too suspicious for either of them to overlook. However, the elf had saved the Herald’s life and taught her to close rifts since then. Perhaps he was closer to gaining the Seeker’s trust than Cullen had realized – or the Seeker had just grudgingly admitted that Solas was useful. The latter seemed more likely than the former.

“And what of Varric? I’m sure he would like to join as well,” the Herald said, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. Cullen was confused for a fleeting moment before it came to him – Varric! Varric was the Thedas-renowned dwarven author Cassandra had all but kidnapped for interrogation months earlier. Cullen never could remember his name, even though they had known of each other for years in Kirkwall. The dwarf was still around, then - Cullen had assumed he had left after the events of the Conclave, since the Seeker had been too distracted to keep an eye on him.

Cassandra scoffed loudly. “Fine. We will take Varric.” She over-pronounced his name, her nose curling up as if she were talking about a cockroach, and Cullen realized why the Herald was smiling. It hadn’t escaped her notice, then, that Cassandra and Varric weren’t the closest of friends. A small grin played upon his own lips in response, earning him a sharp glance from Lady Trevelyan. He fought to bring his features back under control, if only to placate their new ally.

“Shall we go tell the others to get ready? If time is of the essence, we should leave soon.” The Herald nodded curtly at Leliana, Josephine and Cullen in lieu of farewell before leaving the war room, not waiting for a response. Cassandra followed her with a similarly curt inclination of her head, leaving the three remaining leaders of the Inquisition to contemplate their newest comrade in silence.

“Well,” Josephine, being the most talkative of the three, was the first to break that silence. “She certainly looks the part of Herald. I am quite certain we will be able to make something of this.”

Leliana smiled slyly. “Yes, she does. We will have no difficulties convincing the people of Thedas that we are a force to be relied upon with her at the helm. Even if she isn’t a prophet, I’m sure the people can be made to see her as one – after we add some nice embellishments to her story, of course.”

Cullen sighed. He was not one for social weaponry - he far preferred to stick to the concrete act of war. Truth be told, this entire meeting had worn him out, and he wanted nothing more than to retreat to his tent for a moment of silence. He could feel his fingers start to tremble and clenched his hands into fists to stop the movement, noticing Leliana’s sharp eyes on him. “That all remains to be seen. She is certainly intimidating, if nothing else,” he grudgingly supplied as a distraction. 

He’d be damned if he let them see how much meeting Lady Trevelyan had really unnerved him.


	2. Ice

It was the coldest day yet since the Inquisition had moved their base of operations to the little mountainside village of Haven. The storm front that had brought snow down upon them had been raging all night, and seemed undeterred by the dawning of a new day. The fruits of the storm’s labors were piling up in drifts all around the little town, painting the world a serene white – and, at night, the pure canvas had glowed ghostly green in the light of the breach hanging over all their heads.

The snow swirling around his tent had the Commander shivering, but he refused to put on his gloves. It was imperative that these reports were sent to Leliana today, and he just couldn’t write legibly with his big woolen mittens on. He was determined to stand this cold. This report was the last he had to write, after all. He could soon go warm himself by the fire outside his tent, or perhaps go drink an ale at the tavern. Cullen sighed, having lost his train of thought – dreaming of warmth was apparently detrimental to report progress. Rereading his latest sentence to recapture the essence of his report, Cullen realized he was almost finished. Thank the Maker! He crossed the last ‘t’, signed his name at the bottom as quickly as possible and nearly lunged to the other side of his tent to grab his gloves and shove them on his hands. The gloves were cold, and didn’t bring the immediate relief he’d hoped for. Cursing under his breath, Cullen grabbed his reports and exited his tent, only to be temporarily blinded by the morning sunlight bouncing off the snowdrifts all around him. As he blinked furiously, stumbling forward half-blind in a single-minded attempt to reach the warmth of any nearby building as quickly as possible, his journey was halted by a sudden collision.

Reports flying out of his hands, Cullen reached out to grab whoever he had run into, steadying them and apologizing profusely at the same time. “I’m so sorry… Snow blindness, you know… In a hurry to reach a fire…” Cullen blinked, trying to clear his vision, and peered down at his unfortunate victim. Amber eyes he’d recognize anywhere stared right back at him. The Herald. Cullen pulled back his hands from her shoulders as quickly as if he’d just realized he was holding a venomous snake, and took a small step back. She was dressed appropriately for the weather, he saw. Her usual cloth armor had been cast aside in favor of a white lambswool tunic and padded leather breeches, paired with tall black boots. A thick red cloak fell off her shoulders, the hood lopsidedly resting on her upper back – he realized she had probably been wearing it over her head, obscuring her vision in the moments leading up to their collision. Her long, golden hair was conveniently and yet elegantly braided and pinned to the back of her head, as always. He had noted that a few of the shorter strands of her hair would usually fall free from their ties over the course of the day, but it was too early for that yet. She seemed more austere without the tendrils of hair framing her face, though the redness of the tip of her nose caused by the subzero temperatures softened the look greatly.

The Herald cocked an eyebrow at him, interrupting his scrutiny. Cullen was horrified to feel warmth rising to his cheeks – of all the times in the world to start blushing! “My Lady Herald, I apologize,” he repeated with more formality, after clearing his throat.

“It’s quite alright, Commander. Here, let me help you,” the Herald spoke softly, lifting her hood back in place before bending down to pick up the reports currently at risk of being completely scattered by the brisk wind blowing about their ankles. He joined in to help, and together they hunted down every last leaflet. As she handed her share of the papers back to him, Cullen gingerly took them out of her hands.

She wasn’t snowblind like he was, and had obviously noticed the way he recoiled from her physical presence. Her extraordinary eyes looked him up and down, her nose wrinkling almost unnoticeably. Distaste? Distrust? Cullen couldn’t be sure. As her gaze fixed back upon his, she lifted her eyebrows questioningly. “Are those the reports you are to deliver to Leliana? She asked me to pick them up on my way to the war room; we’re to go over them before I set back out for the Hinterlands. There was something about the location of the rebel mages’ hideout in there that I needed to see.”

The last sentence was more of a question than a statement, and Cullen nodded in reply. “Yes, Herald. That would be…” Cullen’s eyesight was quickly returning back to normal, as was the coloration of his face – excepting the acceptable tinge of pink around the nose and the ears caused by the blistering winds. He shuffled his reports for a moment. “… This one right here, my Lady.” He pulled out a single report and handed it to her, very deliberately minding not to not hesitate or pull his hand back from her more hastily than was required. He would not let her catch him with his guard down again. Cullen had decided to give her the benefit of the doubt – and  _ that benefit must stand _ . He mentally admonished himself for even having to actively think about this. The Herald was out in the field for weeks on end, giving up everything in her life for their cause, and yet he couldn’t get past the unease her presence caused him simply because she was a mage. It was something he refused to admit to anyone, yet he had the sinking feeling that Leliana knew – and, even worse, that the Herald knew.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me, Commander.” The Herald was looking at him with a strange expression in her eyes – half concern, with more than just a touch of… annoyance, perhaps. Her mouth twitched slightly; Cullen couldn’t tell whether it was a smile or a frown that she was masking. He slowly came to the realization that she had been watching the play of emotions on his face closely, and, to his embarrassment, felt his face flush red again. He cleared his throat. “I’m not… I don’t…” He coughed once, his hand rising up almost involuntarily to rub behind his neck as he searched for the right words. “I’m merely respectful of your presence, My Lady.” That seemed as good an answer as any – though the Herald didn’t seem to buy it.

“As you wish, Commander.” Her eyes hardened, the warmth seeping out of her gaze. She took a very deliberate step back, still clutching the missive he had handed her. “I will see Leliana gets this. I was to inform you that you needn’t worry about the rest until later.”

Cullen nodded, and the Herald turned on her heel, starting to walk up to the Haven Chantry, their center of operations for the Inquisition. Suddenly, without really thinking about it, Cullen grabbed her arm to stop her. He immediately dropped it, almost surprised at himself for having even touched her voluntarily. He could feel the magic pulsing beneath her skin, even through her thick clothing. As she turned to face him, the words he’d been preparing to say caught in his throat again. His face felt like it was on fire, and her eyes surveying him with a cool collectedness didn’t help in the least. The Herald stood patiently as Cullen coughed a few times, readying his words again. “I do not mean to insult you, My Lady,” he said, his voice low and rough with embarrassment. “I’m… I have not been away from the templars very long. I am still working through some previous memories. It isn’t a reflection on my thoughts on you, Herald.” His hand was up on the back of his neck again.

The Herald didn’t reply for what seemed like far too long to Cullen. Her eyes drifted across his features, from his frantic neck-rubbing to what he hoped was a sincere expression in his eyes. After a moment of her scrutinizing his face, Cullen coughed again, looking away and shifting his feet nervously. She truly had a remarkably piercing gaze. It was very unsettling to be the sole focus of it. He felt he would never get used to this woman’s presence – and it didn’t seem to be just because she was a mage, either. There was something very commanding in her very being. He had noticed its effect on others before he’d come to notice it himself: many of the Inquisition bumbled around the Herald, seeking desperately to please her yet seeming terrified of her at the same time. He didn’t know how much of it was due to her status as Herald of Andraste, and how much of it was her own doing.

“It’s alright, Commander,” she said at long last, and Cullen let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Before he had a chance to regain eye contact with her, she turned to leave again, and he barely caught her final words before she walked away: “we all have our ghosts.”

Cullen watched her walk away, still staring the way she’d gone long after she had turned the corner and disappeared from view. He’d forgotten all about his freezing fingers.


	3. Steel

”Commander, a word?”

Cullen turned to see Leliana catching up with him on his way out of the Chantry. It had been a long day of reports, meetings with scouts and training, and all Cullen had wanted was to go walk quietly in the snowy forests around Haven, to enjoy some peace and quiet before retiring to his tent to continue work. He sighed, and Leliana smiled a little in response. “Don’t worry; I won’t take up much of your time. I just got a report from Val Royeaux that I thought you would like to see.”

Cullen immediately perked up. The Herald of Andraste and her small company of Inquisition representatives had gone to meet with the Chantry mothers in Val Royeaux a few days since, and they’d yet to hear anything about how the talks had progressed – if there had even been any talks. He took the report from Leliana and skimmed through it quickly. It was all he could do to keep his mouth from falling open in shock.

“ _What do the templars think they’re doing?_ ” The words were out of Cullen’s mouth before he had even fully formed his thoughts around the sentence. The templars had not only left the Chantry, but knocked out a Revered Mother and marched out of Val Royeaux entirely? It was absolutely inconceivable. What was Lord Seeker Lucius’s plan? Cullen had heard of the current leader of the templars; he had been told the Lord Seeker was a fair and reasonable man, not prone to bouts of unnecessary violence like the one seen in Val Royeaux.

“It’s difficult to say,” Leliana sighed. She was not a woman to stand idly by when there was some information to be learned, and not knowing the answer to a question always seemed to bother her. “I’ve sent some eyes to follow the progress of the templars. We’ll find out where they’re going as soon as they reach their destination,” Leliana promised, shaking her head slightly. “There’s something more sinister at work here than just templars leaving the Chantry. This is so… uncharacteristic of the Lord Seeker that Cassandra has described, don’t you think?”

Cullen nodded in agreement. “I was just thinking the same thing. We must speak with Lady Cassandra, of course, but you’re right. This was unexpected. I don’t like being caught off guard like this.” The advisors had been preparing the Herald for her duties as the poster girl of the Inquisition, and Cullen had thought they had done a thorough job. That preparation had included some character analysis on all the influential people in all the factions involved in current global politics, as well as keeping her informed on any troop movements their scouts reported. Not even Leliana had foreseen the templars showing up in the meeting between the Herald and the Mothers of Val Royeaux – which she should have, considering that marching a host of soldiers towards a city could rarely be done under the radar of a spy network as intricate as Leliana’s. He didn’t mention it, however; it was obvious Leliana was already berating herself enough. Cullen’s input would add no further value to her introspections. Most importantly, none of them had had any inkling about the Lord Seeker’s change of heart. Cullen suspected that Cassandra would, in turn, be berating herself for not being able to treat with the Lord Seeker. Cullen sighed. The templars would have been valuable allies. “Perhaps it is still possible that some of the templars may turn over to us. They can’t all agree with the Lord Seeker’s methods. It goes against the grain to hit a Revered Mother, after all.” Cullen’s lip twitched as he spoke. There was a sort of dark humor to the situation.

“Perhaps. We cannot place too much faith in that happening, however,” Leliana warned. “It is likely the Lord Seeker has tightened their leashes to keep them loyal.” She was right. Cullen sighed, rubbing a gloved hand over his face. He’d had just about enough of these unpleasant surprises. “There’s a post scriptum on the other side of the report you might like to read as well, Commander.” Leliana pointed to the missive still in Cullen’s hand, and he turned it over to read the other side. _The Lady Herald was approached by two hooded figures on her way out of the city. The first was a Circle mage, who handed the Herald a piece of parchment and left. The second was, by all appearances, Fiona, the leader of the rebel mages. She and the Herald had a brief and seemingly cordial discussion before parting ways_.

“Fiona? And a _Circle_ mage?” Why would a mage go about dressed in Circle robes after the Circles had been declared defunct? And, even more mysteriously… what was the leader of the rebel mages doing in Val Royeaux, so close to the bulk of the templar forces?

“That’s what the report says,” Leliana shrugged. “The scout that delivered it detailed that the Herald took off for a chateau in the outskirts of Val Royeaux after these meetings, and that attempts to follow Grand Enchanter Fiona were unsuccessful. She just… vanished.” Leliana’s brow furrowed. Cullen guessed she wasn’t pleased that her scouts had lost such a valuable source of information. “The Herald should be here shortly. Our forward scouts have reported seeing the troupe traveling towards us a few leagues from here. We will get our answers from her soon, I’m sure.”

With that, Seeker Cassandra burst into the main hall of the Chantry. “Has the Lord Seeker gone completely mad?!” The woman thundered, stalking down the aisle towards Cullen and Leliana, who exchanged slightly humored glances. Cassandra’s fury was always very vibrant, and this time seemed to not be an exception. “Have you heard what that… that…” Cassandra caught herself before she referenced the Lord Seeker _too_ unkindly. “What _he_ has done?” Cassandra demanded of Leliana, who held up the report they’d been discussing only moments earlier in response. Cullen sighed again – so much for his nice walk.

“She’s been like this all the way back from Val Royeaux.” The Herald had trailed into the Chantry after Cassandra, and now offered this incriminating information with a slight upward twist in the corner of her lips. “She’s mellowed down a bit, actually. We’ve heard all kinds of colorful descriptions of the Lord Seeker’s character.” Cullen had to suppress a smile at the Herald’s wry tone of voice.

“He has gone insane,” Cassandra was clearly making a conscious effort to quiet her rage, and spoke in a far softer tone now. “He is steering the templars wrong. This is the opposite of what the order is supposed to stand for.”

“I agree with you, Lady Seeker,” Cullen sympathized, and was rewarded with only a small huff of contempt. “However, we were meaning to ask about the other parties you met during your time in Val Royeaux – is it true that you were approached by Grand Enchanter Fiona?” Cullen knew that wasn’t her official title anymore, but it would have felt wrong to speak her name untitled. Cullen wasn’t used to such familiarity with… well, anyone. It had been a long time since his relationships with others hadn’t been determined purely by their respective titles.

“It is true, yes,” the Herald took over for Cassandra, who was breathing deeply to bring her emotions back under control. Cullen was always impressed by how well Cassandra kept her emotions in check – but he had seen how she took out her rage in the training ring afterwards. It took a lot to get the Seeker as deeply riled up as she was now. Cullen deduced that she was far more shaken by the Lord Seeker’s actions than she wanted to admit. His thoughts were interrupted by the Herald’s continued explanation. “Fiona invited us to Redcliffe to treat with the mages.”

That certainly captured his attention, and he could almost feel Leliana’s gaze sharpen on the Herald as she listened to this new information. Even Josephine, who had been answering what she called _diplomatic correspondence_ in her study, had been drawn out by the commotion in the hallway, and Cullen finally noticed her standing behind them, enraptured by the Herald’s news.

“This could be a trap.” Cullen knew his distrust of mages was showing, but he didn’t care. It was his primary assessment of the situation. The mages hadn’t been willing to even answer their inquiries regarding a possible meeting before, and all their scouts had returned without even having been received by Grand Enchanter Fiona.

“It could be,” Leliana agreed. “But are we willing to take the chance that it isn’t? This is the first opportunity we’ve gotten to approach anyone for assistance.”

“The templars…” Cullen started, but was immediately interrupted by Josephine.

“Commander, it doesn’t seem like the templars in their present state are any more reliable than the mages, I’m afraid. Even if they were willing to speak with us, which they have made it quite clear that they aren’t.” Josephine’s logic was sound, Cullen had to admit. The thought of marching into a nest of rebel mages without truly knowing their intentions still had the hair on the back of his neck standing.

“The Herald was the one to be invited, and I think her opinion should be the deciding one here,” Cassandra rejoined the conversation, looking at the Herald questioningly.

The other woman nodded, her amber eyes thoughtful as she tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “The mages could help us with the breach. It seems to be magical in origin, and we had discussed that powering this mark could maybe give us the leverage we need to close it for good.” The Herald clenched her right hand, which Cullen now knew held the Mark. He had never seen it, and he was quite thankful for that – he was wary enough of the Herald’s presence as it was. Seeing she had a mystical glowing green hand would do nothing to calm his nerves. Cullen had noted years ago that knowing something was true and seeing it with your own eyes were very different things.

“We had also discussed that powering the mark could kill you, My Lady,” Cullen found himself speaking through clenched teeth. “Throwing magic at magic isn’t always the right way to solve problems. The templars could suppress the breach, which in turn would require less power from your mark to have an effect on it. No mages required. I was a templar; I know what they are capable of. I’m confident that it could work.”

“But the templars do not wish to even _speak_ with us, let alone help us! We don’t know how much more time we have, the breach could start expanding at any moment. Even Solas can’t predict how it will behave in the near future. Trying to talk sense into the Lord Seeker or waiting for enough templars to defect to our side could be wasting valuable time that we may not have.” The Herald’s eyes flashed, and there was more than just a hint of steel in her quiet tone as she spoke. Her eyes bored into Cullen’s, her stance defensive and her gaze unyielding. “The mages have offered to treat with us. Trap or no, it is a possibility to speak with them. I do not believe we can let this opportunity slip by. I’m willing to go.”

“Yes, Herald,” Cullen acquiesced. He could see there was no arguing with her; the Herald had already made up her mind. Cassandra was right: this was ultimately _her_ decision. The Herald had been offered the opportunity, and it must be up to her whether or not she took it.

“That’s settled then,” Cassandra decided. “We’ll go to Redcliffe.” The Herald opened her mouth to speak, but Cassandra interrupted her before she could speak. Cullen was slightly taken aback – Maker knows _he_ couldn’t bring himself to interrupt the _Herald!_  – but apparently Cassandra had no qualms about doing so. “I’d feel better if you didn’t go alone, Herald. If it is a trap, even you could use some help.” Cullen noted the slight smile playing at Cassandra’s lips, and the Herald’s answering smile was one of the most genuine than he’d seen from her yet.

“Of course, Cassandra. We’ll ask Vivienne, Varric and Solas what they think, as well. I’m sure Vivienne would enjoy the chance to speak with Fiona, if nothing else.” Cassandra nodded at the Herald’s assessment, which left Cullen wondering who this Vivienne was.

“The Circle mage who approached us in Val Royeaux was a disciple of Vivienne de Fer, First Enchanter of the Circle of Montsimmard and the Court Enchanter to the Orlesian Court.” The Herald seemed to sense Cullen’s confusion. “She offered her assistance for the Inquisition. We couldn’t say no.” _Couldn’t, or hadn’t wanted to?_ Cullen kept his thoughts to himself, and only nodded, not meeting the Herald’s gaze.

More mages. _Wonderful_.


	4. Heart

The Inquisition’s training rings had always been a place of relaxation for Cullen. Not only was it therapeutic to hone his own skills, making sure he was still fit to fight despite not spending much time in the field, but it was immensely satisfying to see his recruits train hard and learn as a result. After a hard sparring match with one of the more experienced templars in his regiments, Cullen was leaning against the sparring ring’s fence and breathing heavily. “Keep your shield up, Jim!” He yelled across the field to one of the newer scouts. The boy was experienced with a bow and a dagger, but had wanted to learn to fight with a sword and a shield when presented with the chance. As if on cue, Jim’s opponent caught the top of the boy’s shield with his own and knocked it out of the recruit’s hand, before swiping at his neck with his sword. Fight over. Jim looked crestfallen. The boy tried his hardest, but he simply wasn’t the most talented fighter. Or the most talented scout, for that matter. Still, Cullen appreciated his hard work and determination, and circled to the other side of the ring to clap the younger man on the shoulder. “Nice form with that sword, Jim. You just need to remember to think of your shield as an extension of your arm – and as a wall. It won’t protect you if you let it flop all over.” He grinned at the young recruit, who smiled in response and stammered a “thank you, yes Sir” before awkwardly scampering off. Cullen shook his head, trying not to smile in amusement.

“That was kind of you,” a voice behind him said, and Cullen whirled around. He hadn’t heard the Herald approach. “The boy certainly tries, doesn’t he?” The mage kept a respectful distance, but studied Cullen with such intensity that the Commander turned back to the sparring ring, using his role as trainer as an excuse to break eye contact. He leaned on the wooden pole fence again, feigning immense interest in the sparring match currently going on in the ring.

“He does. We need recruits with heart, and he certainly has it.” Cullen’s voice came out gruffer than he intended, and he swallowed noisily to try to clear his throat. He felt like he had to clear his throat far too often in the Herald’s presence, and had resolved to make a conscious effort to cough less around her.

“A lot of them believe in the cause.” The mage’s voice was closer than Cullen had anticipated, and he looked over to see her leaning nonchalantly on the fence to his left, still a good few meters away from him. She knew he would be uncomfortable if she were any closer, and was silently showing him she wouldn’t intrude on his space. Cullen bit his lower lip softly. Her wariness of him had faded as they had been forced to spend more time in close quarters in meetings and around the war table, and he was ashamed to admit that he wasn’t as ready to let go of his prejudices as she was. Perhaps she hadn’t suffered at the hands of templars as much as he had suffered at the hands of mages. He pushed the thought away, not wanting to bring up the memories that would follow that train of thought. Perhaps she was just a stronger, more composed person. “It heartens me to know that we are being followed by people who truly believe we are doing the right thing. It makes it easier to feel like we are on the right track,” the Herald continued, very carefully looking at anything but Cullen. He assumed this was her effort to speak with him privately without making him uncomfortable. They had, out of both mutual distrust and no small measure of respect, spent their overlapping days in Haven politely ignoring and avoiding each other, only coming together when their duties required it of them.

The Herald was clearly breaking this unspoken agreement now, and it made Cullen’s mouth run dry. She must have had something important she wished to discuss with him for her to seek him out like this. He realized he had been quiet for quite some time, lost in his ponderings. “Mm,” he murmured in agreement, just loud enough for the Herald to hear. “We are doing the right thing. I have no doubt.” Had she sought him out for reassurance in this matter? It didn’t seem like her.

“We must be,” the Herald sighed, almost wistful. “I… I assume you’ve read the report on what happened at Redcliffe?” Cullen had never heard the Herald’s voice so full of emotion, and was surprised by how jarring the experience was. Normally so completely in control of her tone and expressions, the Herald suddenly seemed far more human to him than ever before. She sounded sad. And weary, weary beyond her years.

“I have, My Lady,” Cullen replied with more formality than he’d meant, and he saw the corner of her mouth turn up in a dry smile. The next time she spoke, her voice was more controlled, and he felt a pang of regret. He should have shown her he didn’t mind her emotions; he should have responded in kind.

“I didn’t include everything in that report,” she confessed quietly, her eyes still trained on the two templars sparring in the ring. The came together, swords and shields clashing, rhythmically pushing against each other’s armor, trying to find breaks in their defense. Cullen saw the other templar make a slight posturing error, and his opponent quickly struck him down. Cullen knew he should have called out an instructive comment – instead, he turned to face the Herald, inviting her soundlessly to continue. The templars clapped hands, laughing, and took up the fight again before the Herald reopened her mouth. “You were all dead. Everyone. I failed you all,” the Herald was almost silent, distress seeping back into her tone. Shivers ran up Cullen’s spine, and he stepped closer to the woman almost involuntarily, his hand reaching out for her shoulder… but he couldn’t do it. Instead, he leaned back on the fence, sighing as he rubbed the back of his neck and then ran his hand along his jaw, thoughtful.

“You saw what would happen if we failed,” Cullen surmised. He had discerned as much from the report, but seeing the emotions now playing out in the Herald’s eyes was far more powerful than the cursory written text he had read. The Herald _knew_ how bad it would be if the Inquisition didn’t pull through – if _she_ , personally, didn’t pull through. She and one other were the only ones who could truly _know_ . Dorian, the Tevinter mage who had helped the Herald through the ordeal at Redcliffe and had subsequently joined the Inquisition was the other. Based on what he had read in his report, a Tevinter magister occupying Redcliffe had sent the Herald and Dorian a year forward in time, and they had seen what would happen should the Herald disappear from this time. On her report, the Herald had written: _it was bad. They plan to assassinate the Empress and take control of the Grey Wardens and their mages to build an army of demons. We must make sure none of this ever comes to pass._

It sounded bad enough when condensed into so few words. Cullen could scarcely imagine what it was like the live with the details, or what it had been like to experience firsthand the aftermath of their own failure. He swallowed heavily. “Do you… Do you wish to speak of it?” He offered, almost afraid to break the silence between them. When she didn't reply, Cullen cleared his throat once again. "We won't fail them. I promise you." The Herald finally looked at him, meeting his sympathetic gaze with a searching one of her own. Whatever she saw in his eyes, it didn’t invite her to continue her confession.

“It wasn’t good, Commander,” the Herald’s mouth twitched, her expression falling back into the concealing mask he had come to expect from her. “We can just leave it at that. I know now that we are certainly doing the right thing. And there is nothing I won’t do to make sure what I saw never happens. Nothing. Failure has never been an option.” The fervor in her voice almost made Cullen shudder, but he suppressed it as well as he could. “Josephine wished to speak with you about something as soon as possible,” the Herald had regained her composure entirely, and tacked this last sentence on almost as an afterthought, as if trying to claim that that was why she had come to speak to him in the first place.

The Herald turned to leave with a slight smile and ironic nod to him, and Cullen found himself once again staring after her. For a moment, the Herald had seemed almost human. He didn’t know if that had made her more or less unsettling. Cullen shook his head, trying to clear it, and turned back to the training rings. “Ritts, keep your elbow up when you shoot! It will help with your aim. Jim, keep that shield arm strong! Good, much better!”

And so the day continued as if nothing had changed.


	5. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Chapter contains some sexual advances on an unwilling participant.

He opened his eyes to a sparsely decorated stone-walled room. He knew this room. He had spent the worst moments of his waking life in this room. He was back in his chambers at Kinloch Hold.

”No, no, this isn’t possible,” Cullen whispered. The frosty tendrils of his breath curled into the crisp air as he exhaled heavily, trying to calm himself. He could not be back at Kinloch. He had left. He had survived. He had been saved. Cullen closed his eyes, trying to shake himself free of this vision he was having. “Wake up, Cullen,” he muttered to himself. But when he opened his eyes, the familiar room was still around him, taunting him. “No!”

“What’s the matter, sweetling? Do you not like being here with me?” He heard a familiar voice from the corner of the room behind him and tried to whirl around to face it – but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. Cullen looked down, and was horrified to see smoky bands of light encircling his hands and feet. This was a spell he had seen before. He knew exactly what those ties meant. He was trapped; trapped by _it_.

The mocking voice moved closer, continuing to speak when Cullen didn’t immediately answer it. “Now, now, dearest. There’s no point in struggling, you must have learned that by now. Did you really think I would _ever_ let you leave? You’re my very favorite toy, my love. I would be entirely lost without you.” He could have almost said the voice spoke the last sentence affectionately, if he hadn’t known who was behind it.

“I won’t listen to you, demon,” Cullen spat. “This is a dream.” His voice cracked on the last word. He was unsure, and the demon was certain to pick up on it. Cullen shook his head, trying to clear his mind. It wouldn’t do to give into his emotions. They would only give the demon more power over him. He closed his eyes again, breathing deeply, almost meditatively to retain his calm.

“Is it, now?” The voice was closer. On his neck, he could feel the breath that accompanied the words it spoke. A chill rose up Cullen’s spine – the breath was icy, even compared to the frigid air in the room. “Is _this_ really the dream… or did you only just wake up to reality?” Caressing fingers ran through his hair and across his bare back, almost fondly. Cullen shuddered involuntarily at the creature’s touch, and felt its laughter on the back of his neck in response. “Oh, my love, how I have missed you whilst you have been asleep.” Cold lips pressed against his shoulder and he turned his head, trying to see the creature.

It noticed, and lifted its lips from his shoulder to meet his gaze. Cullen’s skin crawled. The face gazing at him was one he had once loved. The demon circled to his front, trailing its fingers down his chest lovingly. It smiled – a smile Cullen would once have given _anything_ to have directed at him. “Have you missed me too, my love?” The demon’s fingers had reached his lower abdomen, circling around his navel, trailing ever lower. Cullen gagged, his entire body shuddering as it tried fruitlessly to reject the demon’s touch. “Oh, but _Cullen_ , that’s no way to greet your lover after such a long night’s sleep!” The demon scolded, still smiling. “I’m beginning to think you haven’t even thought of me while you’ve been off in your little dreams.”

“I’d have been happy to never see you again,” Cullen spoke through clenched teeth, breathing frantically through his nose to try to suppress his gag reflex. The creature’s hand had reached the front of his torn trousers. “Go back to the Fade, demon.”

“Don’t you realize what I could give you, Cullen?” The demon leaned closer, whispering into his ear. Its hand resumed its intimate caress, and his entire body once again shuddered. “I could give you her. _Amell_. She’s here, just waiting for you.” Cullen leaned away, trying to put as much distance between himself and those lying, deceitful lips as possible.

“She’s not Amell anymore. You’ve taken her, and you’ve ruined –“, Cullen’s protest broke off in a strangled gasp as the demon suddenly tightened its grip on him. With its other hand, it grabbed his face and pulled him to face it, forcing him to meet its gaze.

“She’s exactly what she needs to be,” the demon hissed. Its eyes – eyes that were no longer Amell’s beautiful, green eyes – glowed bright purple. “And she’s going to have you. _I’m_ going to have you. And you’re going to absolutely _love_ it.” The demon pressed its lips to his, and Cullen shied away violently. “We’ve been doing this little song and dance for years, my love, and every day your protests get weaker and weaker. Someday, you’re not going to be able to protest anymore.” Those purple eyes bored into his. “Someday, you’re going to let me in. We will be together, and you will be happy. You’ll see. And even if you don’t come around… there is no escape.”

“I’ve escaped, this is a dream,” Cullen repeated, almost prayerfully. It had to be a dream. This couldn’t be real. This Amell-faced demon was his past, not his present.

“No, darling,” the demon chuckled, its eyes lighting with delight. It was overjoyed. “Your other life – your escape, your time at the Kirkwall Circle, even your precious Inquisition and your darling Herald – _that_ is the dream. A dream I conjured for you. I hope you enjoyed it; I certainly had the utmost fun watching you flail about as a commander.”

“It was real,” Cullen’s protestations were quickly becoming a chant – repeated more as a reminder to keep his faith in the words than due to any actual sense of belief. “This is the dream.”

“Oh, all the circumstances are real, I assure you. There is truly a breach outside these walls. People are dying. The templars and the mages are at war… but there is no Inquisition, no Herald. No _hope_.” The demon’s fingers had found his chest again, and it was trailing them back and forth across his skin as it spoke. “Outside these walls, everyone is dying and the world is being reduced to dust. But here, here within this tower, it is just you and me. Forever. Isn’t it simply _wonderful_?”

“You’re lying,” Cullen closed his eyes and leaned back. He would not give in. Not this time.

His words were met with an animal screech, and Cullen’s eyes snapped open in shock. The face that had been before him moments before, the face of his first love, was gone – the demon had regained its true form. Purple-tinged scaled skin stretched over high cheekbones, deep purple eyes with scarlet irises set above an aquiline nose and ruby red lips bared back in a snarl. Black horns twisted through the creature’s skull. A desire demon. “You _will_ belong to me,” the demon growled in its true voice, so different from the soft cadence of the real Amell. The fingers on Cullen’s chest had transformed into black-nailed talons, the tips of which were now pressing into his skin right above his heart. As it spoke, the demon pressed its nails deeper into his skin, drawing pricks of bright red blood. “I will have you, _forever_ , one way or another.” Deeper, deeper and still deeper the talons pressed, and Cullen caught his breath. His head was swimming from the pain.

The talons pierced his breastbone. Cullen cried out, tears streaming down his face. The agonized wail of its victim just spurred the demon on. Still deeper the creature pressed, until slowly the talons wrapped around Cullen’s still-beating heart. “Let’s get back into that pretty little head of yours, my love, and resume this conversation next time – when you’re more _pliable_ ,” the demon whispered in his ear, and squeezed its fingers together around his frantic heart. The world seemed to stop for a moment. There was nothing but pain, pain everywhere. Cullen gasped for breath, and his vision blurred and then, finally, mercifully faded to black.

He sat bolt upright, panting, looking around to discern his location as quickly as possible. A pointed roof of dark green canvas sprawled above him. A few pieces of furniture were thrown about in the corners of the room, obscuring some of the heavy lambswool rugs that made up the floor. There was an assortment of tonics on the table beside his small, utilitarian cot. A few empty bottles of sleep draughts and pain relieving tonics were strewn haphazardly over the maps covering the big wooden desk in the center of the room – he had left those there earlier that same night, in his rush to get to his cot before the sleep draught took effect. He was in his tent in Haven. Cullen sighed, rubbing a hand over his tear-stained face. It had been a dream, just a dream. He pushed aside the nagging doubts that _this_ could be the dream instead.

Cullen had known that his nightmares would worsen when he stopped taking the lyrium. He had been surprised to find that the first few months of his life without the substance that had ruled his life since he became a templar had been easy. He’d been sleeping well for the first time for over ten years, and he hadn’t felt any of the other side effects he’d been warned about: no hallucinations, no pain and no impaired cognitive function. Now, however, the nightmares had returned with a vengeance, along with aches and pains the likes of which he had never felt before. His head ached, his arms ached, his back ached… Sometimes, without warning, every muscle in his body would suddenly scream out in agony, and it was all he could do to not fall to the ground, writhing in pain. He’d been lucky so far; these sudden bursts of pain had happened in private. He was being given time to prepare for when they happened more often, and when he would have to be able to keep up appearances when these attacks happened in front of other members of the Inquisition. He would be ready.

He would not give in to the lyrium withdrawal. Cullen sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully as he sat on the edge of his cot. He looked around, peering through the small slit that marked the entrance of his tent at the world outside. It couldn’t be later than midnight, based on the utter blackness of the night. Still, Cullen knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep another wink. The air in his tent was hot and stuffy; the bare skin of his back and shoulders was sweaty from his nightmare. He had to get out. Following that trail of thought, Cullen got up and threw his tunic and cloak on before heading to the tent flap. As an afterthought, he grabbed his sword belt from its resting place near the door and strapped it on. Haven was safe, but he wanted to go walk to the training rings outside the town proper. It was his place of peace.

The refreshing breeze of the cool night air felt divine on his clammy skin, and Cullen stopped to savor the sensation for a moment. This had to be real. No desire demon could be capable of conjuring such vivid surroundings. The thought reassured him, but the voice of doubt in the back of his mind remained: this was, after all, his ultimate desire. The gift of freedom from the life he had led. Was that not what he had achieved here? Was this not how desire demons worked, placating their victims by feigning to fulfill their deepest desires? Cullen shook the thought. He would not dwell on it – he would not be driven into paranoia by this lyrium withdrawal. If this was a dream, he would make the best of it and deal with whatever came when the dream ended. It if wasn’t… all the better.

Cullen had almost reached the training fields when a sudden sensation made him stop. His instincts kicked in, and in a single, perfectly choreographed motion he drew his sword and turned to face the threat he had sensed, his entire body tensed to fight. Magic. There was magic nearby. Before he could think any further, he saw it. Within the forest bordering the training rings, a lithe figure was almost dancing in the light of two tall pillars of flame. As the dancer turned, the flames followed. Cullen crept closer, sword arm tense, all his aches forgotten. When he reached the first trees, he stopped, peering carefully into the woods – suddenly, the flames disappeared, and Cullen was plunged into darkness. Guided by instinct, he pressed his back into the nearest tree and held his sword at the ready, quieting his own breath to hear everything around him. The snap of a falling footstep sounded to his left, and Cullen immediately turned toward the noise. His pulse raced in his ears as he strained to hear more movement. Where was the mage?

“Commander.” The single word, even spoken in a soft, easily recognizable cadence, made Cullen jump. Another footstep, this one further away than the last. The mage was retreating. “Commander! It’s just me.”

Cullen’s thoughts caught up to his actions, and pulled back from his defensive stance – only slightly, but enough to show that he was listening to the disembodied voice speaking to him. “My Lady Herald?” His tone was questioning. After the horror of his dream, he wasn’t quite sure he was ready to face any mage, let alone the Herald.

“The one and only,” the voice continued, now taking on the wry tone he so often heard from the Herald. It brought some ease to his mind. She certainly sounded like herself, and not a demon. “Do you mind putting down your sword? I can give us some light, or we can move into the moonlight if… if you would prefer.” The Herald phrased her last sentence tactfully, but Cullen heard the intended inflection: _if you are afraid_.

“Of course, My Lady,” Cullen’s response was almost automatic. He lowered his weapon, but didn’t sheathe it. The terrors of his nightmare were still there, in the back of his mind, as he stepped away from the woods, back into the slightly brighter training clearing. He walked backwards, not taking his gaze away from where he’d heard the voice from. He didn’t want any more surprises tonight.

The figure that followed him out of the woods was indeed the Herald. Even in the dark, her silhouette and the patterns of her movement were unmistakable. As she drew closer, she spoke up again. “I’m sorry, Commander, I was under the impression that I was alone. Even the Herald of Andraste needs to practice sometimes – I usually try to do it when no one’s watching. For obvious reasons, which were quite aptly evidenced here tonight.” The Herald’s tone was dry, amused, and yet not unkind. “You couldn’t sleep either, I assume?”

Cullen shook his head, and would’ve remained content with that reply if it hadn’t been too dark for her to see the gesture. “No, My Lady. I don’t always sleep well.”

“I can relate. After Redcliffe…” The Herald’s voice trailed off, and he could see her absentmindedly twirling her fingers along the intricate wooden carvings that topped her staff as it rested in her hands. His fingers twitched on the hilt of his sword. The Herald didn’t seem to notice. “Well, suffice to say that Redcliffe was a wake-up call. And it has certainly been keeping me awake.” She seemed pleased with her turn of phrase, her voice taking on a slight sense of smug amusement. The Herald turned her gaze up to the sky, and he could finally see her face in the light of the moon. She looked so peaceful compared to the fear and turmoil writhing inside him. “It’s a beautiful night out, isn’t it? I’ve always loved the night sky. I never saw much of it at the Ostwick Tower.”

Cullen murmured assent, not taking his eyes from her. She hadn’t been one for idle talk before, and he was certain she was leading to something. As she was. “Commander, I was trained by a Circle from a very young age. I’m a capable mage, and I’m fully in control of my powers. I am not an apostate, nor am I a blood mage. You don’t need to fear me.”

Cullen was about to protest – of course he didn’t _fear_ her, he was just _wary_ because he’d had a bad night tonight – but she held up a hand to silence him. “I would like for us to truly be comrades, Commander. We are on the same side, and we must work together. That would obviously be more successful if we could get along a little more easily, don’t you think?” The tone of dry amusement was back in her voice, but it was gone the next time she spoke. “I understand you have suffered much at the hands of mages. You are not the first templar to do so. I do not dispute that there can be something to be feared in any mage.” The Herald paused for a moment, as if carefully considering her next words. “The templars haven’t always been kind to mages either, Commander. I am willing to work past this divide if you are. I am no threat to you.”

To demonstrate her point, the mage snapped her fingers. An orb of light blinked into existence by her right shoulder, casting an eerie glow over both of them – and letting them see each other’s faces. Cullen restrained himself from taking a step back, his grip on his sword tightening. It took all his effort to not bring the sword up to a defensive stance again. Instead, he very deliberately sheathed it, breathing deeply to keep his outward appearance of calm.

The answering smile on the Herald’s face lit the night almost as brightly as her magelight. “You see, Commander?” She snapped her fingers again, and the magelight disappeared. They were once again cast into darkness.

“Yes, Herald,” Cullen exhaled. Any night but tonight, he would have been far more in control of himself around the mage. He admonished himself slightly for having given in to the terrors of his nightmares during his waking hours – the Herald did not need to see him thus weakened. He felt he owed her an explanation. “My… My original Circle was that of Kinloch Hold. The Circle of Ferelden. My time there came to an end in… a most unfortunate way. I have memories involving the events there that haunt me to this day… I’m afraid I was not in the most receptive of moods tonight, as I came here immediately following one of these nightmares. This is where I come when I need some peace and clarity of thought.” Cullen gestured to the training rings around them.

The Herald chuckled quietly. “So, a ghostly midnight mage was the last thing you really needed tonight, wasn’t it?” She moved closer, slowly, as if she was approaching an injured wild animal. Cullen almost scoffed – he wasn’t _that_ vulnerable – but the sound caught in his throat as the mage very deliberately, very carefully placed her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry… Cullen.”

“It’s… it’s quite… ah… it‘s quite alright, My Lady,” Cullen stammered. His breath caught in his throat. She was so very near. He could smell her. She smelled of lemons and mint. It mixed with the smoky scent on her, a result of her earlier conjuring, to form a pleasant aroma. He inhaled deeply, instinctively. She was close enough that he could see her smile. Her eyes caught the dim light of the crescent moon above them as she tugged on his arm a little.

“See, I’m not so bad, am I?” The humor in her voice was back. She stepped away, releasing her hold on him. “Shall we go up to the Chantry? I’m sure Leliana will be up, there may be some reports we could finish for tomorrow. Since we’re both awake already...”

Cullen took a deep breath to regain his composure and cleared his throat before replying. “Yes, My Lady. An excellent suggestion.” At his assent, the Herald turned and started towards the Chantry. Cullen followed obediently, shaking his head.

He hadn’t missed that she’d just called him by his given name, not his title. The sensation in his gut at this realization was a surprisingly pleasant one.


	6. Truth

”Lady Cassandra, may I have a word?”

Cullen heard Cassandra sigh as he knocked on the frame of the empty doorway to her hideout. He’d mentally dubbed Cassandra’s chosen work station a  _ hideout _ – it was near impossible to find unless you knew where you were going. Cassandra had elected to adopt one of the rooms under the Chantry for her study. The Seeker wasn’t always the most sociable of people, and he didn’t doubt for a second that the room had been chosen more for its out-of-the-way location than its dank atmosphere, shabby furniture and puddled floor.

Based on her greeting, the Seeker was in one of her antisocial moods again. “Yes, Commander?” Cassandra was sitting in the ramshackle chair next to her even more ramshackle desk, hunched over a small book. The tone of her voice was dry, without any trace of warmth. She carefully put her book down on the desk and covered it with a map before turning to him. “Is there something you needed?”

“I… well, yes,” Cullen cleared his throat. He’d been contemplating his exact wording for this discussion carefully, and it all seemed to suddenly have flown out of his head. “You’re aware I stopped taking the lyrium, like we discussed. The side effects of that are starting to show themselves.”

“I thought it had been going well.” The words were more a question than a statement. Cassandra’s brow furrowed, and she stood up to come closer to him, clearly trying to discern the state of his health by glaring at him. His face was pale and drawn, he knew, and his forehead sweaty. The aches were bad again today, and he his appearance reflected it. The dark circles under his eyes told the story of numerous nights of terror, with little to no sleep in between.

“It was going well. Extremely well. The first few months were completely effortless, excepting the occasional craving. I suppose it was to be expected that sooner or later some… setbacks would start to show themselves.” Cullen wrinkled his nose, trying to come up with a word that would describe his afflictions without being too dramatic. He didn’t need the Seeker to immediately jump to dismissing him from the Inquisition and finding a replacement commander; he just needed her on her guard and aware of his situation.

“Setbacks?” Cassandra’s voice was like a knife. She was demanding more information.

“Aches, seemingly random stabbing pains, what appears to be a constant fever… nightmares. The nightmares are the worst of it. I’ve been taking sleeping draughts, but they can only guarantee an hour or two of sleep at a time.” Cullen sighed, wiping his forehead. None of these symptoms were anything they hadn’t expected. Cassandra’s eyebrows, however, had had shot up at the mention of nightmares.

“We knew this was coming, Commander,” she reminded. The Lady Seeker certainly wasn’t one for overt sympathy, for which Cullen was glad. He didn’t need or want any pity, and Cassandra would certainly not give it. Cullen nodded in reply, and Cassandra continued. “Nevertheless… We need you at your best. And the nightmares worry me. The material we read before we decided you should attempt this –“

“- said that nightmares could lead to waking hallucinations and paranoia, especially if paired with lack of sleep,” Cullen completed her sentence. “I am aware, Seeker. I have not lost touch with reality, and I do not plan to. I’ve had nightmares before – they’ve  _ always _ been a side effect of the lyrium. These are slightly worse, yes, but nothing that can’t be handled. However, I wished to keep you abreast of the situation, as we discussed before this attempt.”

“I realize that, Commander,” the Seeker responded in kind to his slightly aggravated tone. “Are you handling it? Should we be worried about a relapse? I’ve hidden all the lyrium stores, but if you were to get your hands on it and give in…”

“I’m fine, Seeker,” Cullen sighed. If he hadn’t known her well, Cullen might have been offended by her insinuation that he was ready to relapse after the slightest adversity. He did know her, however, and knew this was how she expressed concern for his welfare. She was telling him that she could also give him the lyrium again, if he so chose. “I will cope.” He was decisive, and he saw her sigh in relief.

“I am glad, Commander. We still need you.” Cassandra sat back down, her gaze lingering on the bulge in the map where her book lay hidden. After a moment’s contemplation, she turned her gaze to Cullen one final time before dismissal. “I hope you are aware that I… I appreciate your efforts. No one has ever survived or even really  _ attempted _ to survive lyrium withdrawal, but I  _ know _ you can. We said this would just be a trial, but… I feel we are right. If you can prove that it is possible to give up lyrium entirely, we will give so much hope to many templars out there. We can maybe even use this knowledge to help bring the templars back to the light, and to restore the Order into what it is supposed to be.”

“I know, Seeker. There is much riding on this.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, crushingly aware of just how much depended on both his survival  _ and _ his sanity. Was it even possible that he could retain both? The faces of the men in his forces sprang to his mind. They were all counting on him to be their leader. Everyone in the Inquisition looked to him in matters of war, and war seemed to lurk around every corner these days. Cullen shook his head to clear his thoughts. He would endure. He  _ must _ endure. For the Inquisition, for Leliana, for Josephine, for Cassandra… for the Herald. His temples were starting to throb again – the pain relief tonic was starting to wear off, but he had one more thing he needed to ask the Seeker before he left her to her book. “Seeker… If anything should happen, please relieve me of my command, as discussed. I would trust you to find a successor for me, should I buckle under this withdrawal.”

“As we discussed, Commander,” the Seeker agreed, nodding. Her gaze was drifting back to her book, and Cullen took that as the sign of dismissal he had been waiting for. He bowed his head and retreated to the door, intent on going to the apothecary to ask for more tonics for his aching body.

“Commander?” Cassandra had already picked up her book when Cullen turned back around, halfway into the hallway already. “Should we not tell the Herald? She does, after all, depend on you just as much as the other advisors do, and we decided it would be imperative for them to know.”

Cullen swallowed. Cassandra was right, and yet… He couldn’t bring himself to admit such weakness in front of the Herald. The woman showed such strength against any possible adversary. He would feel a fool telling her he was struggling with something to this extent. She would think him weak. “I will… I will consider it, Seeker. Please let me tell her myself, if I decide to.”

“Of course.” Cassandra had already opened her book, and was halfway immersed in the text as she replied. Cullen turned to leave, deciding to leave the decision for later – the next item on his agenda was far more immediate. The acquisition of more tonics. His headache was slowly worsening, and he squeezed his eyes shut a few times as he walked, trying to will his headache into submission.

_ I will survive this. _


	7. Fire

It had been a long time since anyone had truly seen the night sky. The denizens of Haven had become all too used to the green breach casting its eerie light over their town. In the midst of the dancing and raucous celebration, people could be seen suddenly stopping to turn their gazes towards the heavens, wonder and joy on their faces. The breach was finally gone, sealed by the Herald of Andraste with the help of the formerly rebellious mages of Redcliffe, who had allied with the forces of the Inquisitions. It was all anyone had talked about for the past week – first, everyone had discussed the upcoming march to the summit and attempt to seal the breach from dawn till dusk for days on end. After it was done, silence had fallen as the whole of Haven stared into the sky above them – awed by the sheer _blueness_ of it. And then the town had erupted into applause.

The Herald had been welcomed back a hero. She had stumbled down the mountain, supported by Cassandra – weak, but alive, which was more than many had expected. Cullen had had no doubts. He couldn’t recall ever having met a fiercer _survivor_. As Cullen contemplated the events of the past few days, he wandered further from the blazing fires and loud music of the party. The whole of the Inquisition and all the residents of Haven were present. This was truly a cause for a celebration, and celebrate they did.

Lost in his thoughts, Cullen almost tripped over the leg of someone sitting in the shadows behind a stone pillar. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he rushed to apologize, kneeling down before his victim – the Herald. “Ah. My Lady. I apologize; I seem to be making a habit of running into you.” Cullen rolled his weight on to his heels, leaning back but not rising entirely from his crouch. He steeled himself, forcing his face to remain impassive and his body to remain calm. He wasn’t going to shy away from her now, not when she had just accomplished the impossible.

The Herald smiled slightly and gestured to the party. The dancers and the glow of the flames of the huge bonfire were all visible from her vantage point. “I was just enjoying the view, now that I’m not required to be physically present at the celebrations anymore. I’m sorry I was in your way again, Commander.” The corner of her mouth tugged, and Cullen could have almost sworn it was the start of a small smile playing on her lips. She looked exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes, her lip was cracked and a little bloody, and the tips of her nose and ears were bright red, even in the shadows cast by the pillar she was leaning into. “I’m afraid I haven’t much energy for dancing or even being presentable at present.” The Herald could see him making an assessment of her wellbeing. Cullen opened his mouth to express concern, but the Herald interrupted him quickly: “I’ll be fine. I may just need to get somewhere warm and take a nap soon. Closing the breach was a bit more of an ordeal than Solas originally thought.”

“If you say so, My Lady.” Cullen was doubtful, and, on a whim, reached up to unbuckle his warm, fur-lined cloak. She started to protest as he draped it over her shoulders, taking far too much care to not touch her for the movement to be as casual as he would have liked to pretend. He brushed her exclamations of disapproval off as she had done to him only moments before. “I was getting a bit warm by the fire anyway. At least this way, you can stay and enjoy the victory celebration a moment longer.” Cullen smiled very carefully, every inch of his body tense as he waited for her to laugh him off and force him to take back his cloak. He was already regretting his small act of chivalry.

To his surprise, she nodded and didn’t say anything more about the matter. The Herald just pulled the cloak more tightly around her shoulders, and motioned for him to sit down beside her. Cullen relaxed, but her lack of protestation worried him. Perhaps the breach had really taken more energy from her than they had realized? At her behest, Cullen moved to sit next to her – not close enough for their bodies to touch, but close enough that he could feel the magic emanating from her body like heat waves. The sensation wasn’t as powerful as it usually was. She was tapped out. It made it easier to be near her, and the coiled unease in the pit of his stomach loosened a little.

They sat quietly for a moment. The Herald stared into the flames of the bonfire, and Cullen stared at her. It was the closest he’d been to her for any prolonged period of time, and he found he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. He was struck by how very small she actually was. Her forceful and dignified manner had shaped the image of her in his mind as someone tall, with an intimidating physical presence to match her personality. In fact, she appeared to be nearly a head shorter than him, and far lighter. Her fair complexion, the scattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks, and her feminine features all worked together to make her a beautiful woman, but it was her eyes that really were the most extraordinary he thought he’d ever seen. Now that they weren’t trained on him, he could really _look_ at her without that tension he felt whenever he was under her gaze.

The Herald turned to him suddenly, and Cullen immediately became aware of just how long he’d been staring at her. He coughed and turned away, his face reddening. He hoped it was dark enough for the leaping shadows cast by the pillar to hide his embarrassment. They had been silent for what seemed like forever. He coughed again. His throat felt tight. “Lady Herald, I just wanted to –“

“Amalia,” she interrupted.

“What?” Cullen turned back to the Herald, confused.

“My name is Amalia. Almost everyone else uses it by now,” the Herald said wryly. Cullen could have sworn he saw her roll her eyes, but the shadows crossing over her face made it impossible to tell for sure.

Cullen swallowed, hard. “I… Yes, well…” It had been a long time since he had called anyone with a title by only their given name. It felt too intimate, wrong… especially when applied to the Herald! “Lady… Err… Yes, well…” Cullen was stammering in earnest now, his cheeks almost _glowing_ red – it was impossible for her not to notice, and this knowledge inflamed his burning face even further.

The Herald watched him struggle for a moment, and sighed heavily. “How about ‘Lady Trevelyan’, then? This whole Herald-nonsense makes me quite uncomfortable. I have an _actual_ title, if you wish to use that instead of my given name.” Annoyance colored her tone, but her expression was far softer than her words would have led him to believe. She almost seemed amused.

“Lady Trevelyan,” Cullen repeated, trying to recapture the essence of what he had been trying to say earlier. “I… I just wanted to… thank you. For everything you’ve done for the Inquisition. And for sealing the breach. You have given hope to our cause in a very dark time, and I… I wanted you to know that I appreciate the value of what you’ve done here.”

The Herald – _Lady Trevelyan_ , he corrected in his head – looked surprised, and had only just opened her mouth to reply when the horns sounded. The warning horns. Both Cullen and the Herald were up on their feet almost instantly. The Herald threw Cullen’s cloak back to him and took off, rushing towards the scouts pushing through the celebratory crowds in an effort to find any of the leading Inquisition members. Cullen followed suit, quickly throwing his cloak on as he walked and buckling it around his shoulders.

“What is it, what’s going on?” Cullen demanded immediately as he reached the Herald – she had met up with Cassandra, and they were being rapidly briefed by a scout. The scout pointed to the mountainside opposite the lake on the outskirts of Haven – and Cullen saw it. Thousands of lights, bobbing up and down, moving in unison down the side of the mountain. An army. Marching. Cullen’s eyes widened. “Who are they?”

“They don’t appear to be carrying any banners, Commander,” the scout replied as he turned to Cullen, terror spelled out all over his face. It was Jim, the young recruit. The fear in the younger man’s eyes forced Cullen to regain his composure. Breathing deeply, quieting his nerves and looking around at the people nearest to him, Cullen tried to formulate a plan. Leliana and Josephine had pushed their way through the crowds to join them. Suddenly, there was a banging on the great wooden main gates of Haven.

“I can help! You have to let me in so that I can help!” A frail voice called from the other side, and Cullen motioned to two of his men to push the gates open with him. As he rushed out, tailed closely by the Herald and Cassandra, he almost ran into a young man of no more than twenty. His unkempt blond hair fell over his eyes, and the brim of his large, droopy hat obscured the rest of the features of his ashen face. “They’re coming to hurt you. I came to warn you.” The young man looked around, his pallid blue eyes zeroing in on the Herald. Cullen took an involuntary step towards her, but the woman stubbornly pushed past him and stepped towards the boy. “My name is Cole. The Elder One wants to hurt you. I came to help you,” the young man spoke directly to the Herald now.

“The Elder One?” the Herald asked, her voice harried, and Cole turned around in answer, pointing to the mountainside in front of them. A large dark form stood there, obscured in the tree line by the flickering shadows cast by the torches of his men. It was at least twice the height of any man Cullen had ever seen. He felt his heart grow cold.

“Commander,” the Herald almost shouted as she turned to him, frantically tugging on his arm to get his attention. “Give me a plan! Anything! We have to do something!”

His soldiers were already gathering around him, looking to him to create order in the chaos that had erupted all around them. “We cannot let them reach us here. If we are to have any chance of survival, we have to control this battle. There are too many of them to fight on open ground. We will take the townspeople into the town and seal the gates, and engage the enemy out here while trying to hinder their progress from far away with whatever trebuchets we have.” The plan was formulated quickly, and the Herald nodded in assent. She trusted his judgment.

“Inquisition!” Cullen turned around and shouted to his men. “Lieutenant Arnel, take your squadron to the Northern trebuchet, and hit them with everything we have. Lieutenant Fitz, take the Southern trebuchet. The rest of you, get to the chokepoints you’ve been assigned. Mages, support the Herald. For the Herald! For Haven!” A roar went up in the crowd around him as Cullen brandished his sword. There was an immediate flurry of action. His orders were followed without question.

Cullen turned to usher any townspeople through the main gates of Haven before slamming the heavy wooden doors shut. They were not built to withstand an army. The thought gave Cullen chills, but he didn’t have time to dwell on that any longer. He looked around, trying to pinpoint the position of the Herald and her followers. The woman had vanished in the chaos. Cullen swore under his breath, and turned to join his soldiers at the nearest chokepoint. He thanked the Maker he’d thought to fortify the areas surrounding Haven. It would help their smaller force gain even footing in the coming battle.

Before he had time for further contemplation, the first enemy was upon them. Cullen froze in shock at the sight of the man despite himself. The enemy soldier was a templar – but there was something very wrong with him. His eyes glowed red as he charged the Inquisition soldiers, his voice a menacing roar, a red aura of dust floating around him. As if all that wasn’t enough, the soldier’s skin was broken in many places by red crystals, protruding out of his muscles. His gait was a forced limp, his non-sword arm seemingly immobile against his side. And his skull… Cullen’s complexion blanched as he noticed the glowing red crystals piercing the man’s skull, covered in what he could only assume were the already rotting remains of the man’s skin, skull and brain. What _were_ these monsters?

With that, his enemy swung its sword, interrupting Cullen’s horrified staring. Cullen kicked the first of the red templars to reach them squarely in the chest and sliced, bringing his blade down on his enemy’s neck before he had even reached the ground. The battle ensued all around him, as foe after foe fell to the Inquisition’s blades. Cullen was vaguely aware of the new recruit Jim locked in battle with an even more disfigured red templar than the one he had just slain. Jim and his foe were almost evenly matched – even Jim’s swordsmanship, while lackluster, was enough to fend off the crystal-impaired swings of the enemy. Until Jim was forced to take a step back, and tripped. Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen saw the recruit fall to the ground. His enemy raised his sword to strike the deciding blow. Jim frantically scrambled to get back on his feet, but Cullen could see that the boy wouldn’t regain his balance in time. “Jim!” Cullen barely recognized his own voice as he roared, striking the red templar he was currently engaging back before leaping towards Jim. He reached the recruit just in time, crossing blades with his victor. “Jim, get back into Haven!” Cullen growled, stepping in front of the young man. “Go! You can protect the people of the town better from atop its walls. Get your bow!”

Jim obeyed, abashed, as his commander sliced the throat of the red templar that had almost killed him. Cullen didn’t have time to further ponder the boy’s reckless actions – in the fray, nothing mattered but survival. The onslaught of the red templars seemed endless. Parry, slice, shove, counter – Cullen went through the all too familiar actions of battle, felling foe after foe, the men around him doing the same. He had trained his soldiers well. There had been no casualties, at least not at this barricade. Though the haze of battle, Cullen heard a deep rumbling roar rising somewhere above them. A massive shadow fell over him and the men around him, and despite themselves they looked up.

Someone screamed, and suddenly the air erupted into panicked shouts of “dragon!” – for a dragon it was. The black, looming shape circled above the battlefield before diving at one of their trebuchets, its maw opening to spit searing flames all over the construct and the soldiers operating it. All the while, the red templars pressed their advantage, driving back the Inquisition soldiers and Cullen himself. He had to make a decision. Their trebuchets were gone, and the black monster still circled. Soon, it would be raining fire down on all his soldiers.

Cullen decided. “Inquisition!” he roared with as much voice as he could muster, “get back to the town! Bar the gates, and get everyone into the Chantry! Get the people to safety!” The soldiers near him immediately turned to follow orders, disengaging the red templars as Cullen himself ran towards the other barricades, determined to save as many men as he still had left. “Soldiers! Retreat! To the Chantry!” His lieutenants picked up the shout, and soon all the Inquisition’s men were fleeing, weaving to avoid any place where the shadow of the massive dragon fell as they ran. Satisfied that his orders had reached all the soldiers, Cullen sprinted to the gates of Haven, which now lay open. Straining to pull one of the heavy wooden doors closed by himself, Cullen’s heart almost stopped with sudden realization: he hadn’t seen the Herald. Feeling sick to his stomach, the Commander stood between the massive doors, looking around the empty battlefield. Even the tide of red templars had ebbed. Where was that damn woman?

Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen spotted a flurry of movement, and as he turned to look more closely the vise that had been constricting his heart released. The Herald, singed and bloodied but nevertheless alive, hurried in his direction with her companions trailing behind her. Dorian, Vivienne and Cassandra all seemed to be well, though Cassandra ran with a slight limp. They reached him, and Cullen realized he was stupidly grinning from ear to ear with relief. “I didn’t think I’d see you and your company ever again, Lady Trevelyan.” He found his voice breathy, out of both exhaustion and the sheer pleasure of laying his eyes on his comrades again.

The Herald smiled in response as the entire group was ushered inside the gates by a fiercely scowling Cassandra, who pushed the remaining door closed with a resounding thud. They had some time to breathe, finally. “It takes more than some crystalline monsters and a dragon to hurt us.” Despite her blasé words, the Herald’s brow wrinkled as she spoke.

“Yes, though that monster did mess up my lovely robes,” muttered Dorian, looking at the singed hem of his silken cloak. “That’s almost as bad as actually killing me. My heart is _bleeding_.” The mage definitely had a bit of a flair for dramatics. Cullen sighed.

“My dear, I wouldn’t worry about your robes too much. You can get far finer apparel from any merchant in these mountains. Even that one blind man with the very old donkey sells some wonderful recycled potato sacks that would cut a better figure for you.” Cullen wasn’t well acquainted with the Herald’s newest mage accomplice, but based on his slight dealings with her, Vivienne certainly seemed the snarky type. Her comments now didn’t seem to deviate from that mold.

The mention of the dragon had sobered his mood, and Cullen interrupted the mages’ bickering to turn back to the crisis at hand. “I’ve moved all our people to the Chantry, soldiers and townsfolk. It’s the only building in this village that has any chance of withstanding that monster.” Cullen spoke calmly, despite the panic racing through his mind. He had no plan. He couldn’t think of a single way to get out of this mess. The Herald’s gaze met his, and he could see the same panic in her eyes. His brain scrambled for anything to say, anything that could bring a smile back to her face, but Cassandra interrupted his thoughts before he had a chance to speak.

“Should we get back to the Chantry, then?” Cullen knew the tone Cassandra was employing now. Her voice was far too measured for her to actually be calm. The Seeker was afraid, and when she was afraid she became impatient. Her hurry to get to the people of the Inquisition dripped off her words. Cullen nodded, and the entire group started up the stairs to the Chantry in silence, all contemplating their predicament.

Cullen could feel his throat constricting with dread. The lives of every single member of the Inquisition were in his hands now. He couldn’t fail them, not when they had come so far already. He wouldn’t let the Herald’s visions at Redcliffe come true. He had promised her he wouldn’t let that happen.


	8. Finality

The atmosphere in the Chantry was almost tangible. Fear and desperation clung to the air, dampening the spirits of anyone breathing it in. Scattered beneath the pillars and in the alcoves were the wounded and the dying, with the few lay sisters the Haven Chantry could boast of rushing between them, alternating between administering cooling sips of water and last rites. The outlook was not good.

For the last half hour, the Commander had been sorely needed. His soldiers ran up to him, one after another, his own hidden terror reflected in all their eyes as they looked to him for instruction. This time, he had none to give. He remembered his own days as a lower-ranking member of the Templar Order. There was nothing more comforting than the knowledge that your superior officer would always know what to do. Idly, he wondered how many times he had looked to a superior with blind faith when the superior had been just as lost as he was. The thought shook him. He needed to retain his composure. All his men depended on him for that. After this realization, every soldier that came to him was issued a small errand. Fetch water from the well. Find pillows for the injured. Ask the lay sisters if they need anything from the medicine cabinet. These small tasks soothed his men’s minds, and gave Cullen the peace and quiet he needed to formulate a plan.

The Herald had taken it upon herself to comfort the dying, a look of fierce determination etched across her expressive features. Despite her own injuries and exhaustion, she was flitting between the gravely injured, not letting a single man pass into the Fade without someone at his side. Reverent words of gratitude on her lips, she patted shoulders, held hands, wiped sweaty brows and comforted pain-induced hallucinations and cries. Not a single soldier of the Inquisition would die tonight without knowing their sacrifice was appreciated by the Herald they so looked up to – the Herald they had given their lives for. Watching her work, Cullen felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He quickly turned his face away. The exhaustion of the day was catching up to him, and his emotions were springing to the surface. The Herald’s ferocious compassion stirred something within him. He had to save the Inquisition, if only for her sake. He needed a plan.

“Commander.” An austere voice demanded his attention, and he turned to face it, wiping his hands across his face quickly to hide any trace of his emotions having gotten the better of him. Cassandra had appeared at his side, soundless despite her worsening limp. The Seeker was battered, he saw – a trickle of blood was dripping down her chin, and one of her eyes was black. Her olive skin was splattered in drying blood, which he guessed wasn’t entirely her own. “Do you have a plan?” Despite her appearance, the Seeker’s tone was one of absolute authority and strength.

“I’m thinking. There’s… well,” Cullen hesitated. He shouldn’t admit it, but he didn’t see any way out of their predicament. Haven had walls, but it was only a matter of time before the enemy forces breached them. The town was no fortress, and even their safe haven in the Chantry would soon be overrun. And the only way out was through the hordes of enemies swarming at their doorstep.

Cassandra picked up on his line of thought. “No.” The Seeker’s voice was defiant. She would not give up, even now.

“We could always take out as many of them as we can, before… well, before the inevitable.” Cullen kept his voice low, looking around to make sure there was no one near enough to hear them. His gaze fell on the Herald, who had joined them.

Cassandra’s wasn’t the only battered face around. The Herald looked even worse than she had during the bonfire celebration. The dark circles under her eyes were slowly turning into bruises, and the entire lower half of her face was covered by three large cuts running perpendicular to each other. Something had slashed its talons across her face, and just narrowly missed her eyes. Cullen shuddered at the thought – those intense eyes forever destroyed by a swipe of razor-sharp blades. She had been lucky.

“We’re giving up?” the Herald’s tone was biting. Every ounce of strength she had left seemed to be channeled into her furious glare, of which Cullen caught the full force. He had to look away, so thoroughly ashamed of even thinking it, let alone speaking the words out loud.

“I don’t see any way out of this, Herald. We can, however, choose to fight until the end. It’s not a choice everyone gets, and I’d rather take that way out than huddle in here until they’re upon us.” Cullen was almost whispering now, determined not to let his soldiers hear his plans until it was definite. He looked up to find that his words had softened the Herald’s gaze. Her carefully styled eyebrows knit together, and she finally looked away, at the members of the Inquisition scattered all around them. He could feel his heart sink. They would be letting them all down – but if it was the only option available to them, it was what he would have to command.

“Despair, finding it all lost, losing everything we have built…” A quiet voice behind his shoulder made Cullen jump. The young boy, Cole, was standing in the shadows of the alcove behind them, staring at his feet as he spoke. “No other way, we must do what we can, no matter the cost. It is the only way. Can I command them to give their lives?” A chill crept up Cullen’s spine. The boy’s words had been in his mind only seconds before. Before he had a chance to say anything, the young man looked up, meeting his gaze with those sunken pale blue eyes. There was something unnerving about the boy’s very being. His pale skin, limp white hair and unnaturally faded eyes; his quiet, monotonous voice – the boy somehow looked absolutely colorless. His physical presence was undeniable, even strong, and yet he escaped notice completely.

“The man knows. He wishes to speak, but his voice is gone, and his body will soon follow. The path behind the Chantry, the Andrastian pilgrimage. A path to the mountains. Andraste showed me, she has led me here to save the Herald. Andraste has saved us.” Cole’s eerie monologue was cut short by a violent fit of coughing that erupted nearby. One of the injured struggled to sit up. Roderick Asignon, the Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, who had been in Haven keeping an eye the Inquisition’s efforts on their behalf. Cullen had never liked the beady-eyed, mousey man, but he rushed to his side nevertheless, followed closely by Cassandra and the Herald. Cole seemed to blink into existence next to the Chancellor right before Cullen reached him. The boy knelt, supporting Roderick’s torso as the injured man fought himself into a sitting position, gasping and clutching his side. There was blood under the Chancellor’s hand, Cullen saw. He had been stabbed, probably through the lungs, judging by the way he gurgled as he coughed and struggled for breath. Looking up, Cullen noticed the Herald eyeing him questioningly – he shook his head. It wasn’t likely that the Chancellor was going to live. The mage nodded in response, solemnly kneeling by the dying man.

“His voice is gone, but the path remains. I could tell them where it is, but I cannot open my mouth. There is no water here, no water. I am thirsty.” Cole’s chant started again as the Chancellor coughed, blood spraying from his mouth onto the group now gathered around him. From behind his back, Cole produced a flask of water, and dribbled some carefully into the Chancellor’s mouth. The man managed a weak smile, and collapsed back against the wall, unable to keep his upright position anymore. His eyelids fluttered and his breath came out in wheezing gasps. Cullen knew his death was close, and leaned over to put his arm on Roderick’s shoulder.

“Go in peace. We will find this path. Thank you, Grand Chancellor.” The dying man’s hand rose, waving vaguely towards the back of the Chantry, behind the altar and prayer chambers. Cullen nodded, and the Chancellor sighed heavily. His eyes closed. As the last of his strength left him, his body slumped.

“I am going home,” Cole sighed quietly. And then the boy was gone. Cullen looked around and spotted the young man on the other side of the Chantry, kneeling beside another soldier – giving him water.

Getting up from the dead Chancellor’s side, Cullen pulled the Herald back into the alcove they’d only just left. “We can save them,” she breathed, her face lighting up with the hope that had long since deserted them.

“We can,” Cullen assented. “But how do we make sure we aren’t followed? Many of our number are injured, and they won’t be able to move very fast. We have to slow down the enemy somehow, if we are to have any chance. The dragon…” Cullen’s voice trailed off.

“I’ll distract them.” The Herald spoke slowly, deliberately, as if she were making the decision as she uttered the words. He knew that tone. There would be no dissuading her from this insane notion. As her face set into that familiar mask of determination he’d seen before, he felt ice settling in his heart. She was going to sacrifice herself for all of them, and there would be absolutely nothing he could do about it.

“But, Herald… Lady Trevelyan,” he started, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“Cole said the Elder One wanted me. He won’t stop for anyone else. If he wants me… I will give him what he wants, but not without a fight. It will give you all time to slip away, and the Inquisition will endure.” The Herald’s tone was calm, her intonation as nonchalant as if she was talking about the weather. “Whatever it takes, Cullen. You promised me.”

As he had. Cullen took a deep breath, steeling himself – and nodded. “I will get our people out. You… you may find a way back to us. I will have someone send up a signal flare when we are far enough away, and once that flare goes up… get out, get back to us. Whatever it takes, My Lady.”

“Whatever it takes,” she repeated, and they fell silent.

Cassandra, who had been watching the exchange thoughtfully, tapped the Herald on the shoulder. “You’re not going without me.” The older woman smiled lopsidedly through her split lip. “If you’re off on a suicide mission, I’ll be right by your side.”

“And I simply _ can’t _ miss a chance to get those bastards back for ruining my cloak!” Dorian had somehow materialized near them, and moved to the Herald’s side now. Cullen had been paying too much attention to the Herald to notice anyone else approaching. “You’re not going anywhere without me, either, dearest Amalia.” The ice in Cullen’s heart thawed slightly – she would be surrounded by allies. Perhaps she truly  _ could _ make it out. Looking at her now, even battered and exhausted as she was, she looked fierce, vibrantly and utterly alive. If anyone could survive this, it was her. He had to believe that.

“I suppose it would make me look a poor companion if I didn’t sign on for this operation, now that everyone else has,” the dry voice of Vivienne chimed in. The mage moved into Cullen’s view, stepping up from behind Dorian into the circle of people gathered around the Herald. “I will stand with you, darling.” She placed her hand on the Herald’s shoulder, smiling slightly. The Herald answered in kind, her expression calmer now. She would be with friends.

“And so we have a plan,” the Herald said, turning to Cullen. “Can you get the survivors organized and move to the pass Roderick mentioned? It should be through the back, I suppose – Cole will know, I’m sure. You must ask him.”

Cullen nodded, finding himself unable to speak. The Herald’s comrades prepared to leave, spreading around the hall to gather their equipment before embarking on their mission. The lady Herald lingered for a moment, her extraordinary eyes studying Cullen. She opened her mouth to speak, but immediately closed it, seeming to decide against whatever she had been planning to say. Instead, she nodded to him before turning to follow the others. Without thinking, Cullen grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Please…” He found his voice and the words fell out of his mouth, unbidden. “Please come back, Amalia.”

The Herald smiled – he had used her given name. Cullen’s breath caught in his throat. Maker, she was beautiful. “I’ll try, Cullen.” Her voice was almost a whisper, yet the words echoed in his ears. And then she was gone. Cullen stared after her for a moment, watching as she spoke quietly with her companions and finally stepped out of the Chantry. The heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind her, the entire hall ringing with a finality that tore at Cullen’s heart.

Bracing himself, Cullen turned to his men. Half of them were still lying prone on the ground, suffering from various wounds. The other half were looking after the Herald, obviously wondering what was going on. Pushing his feelings aside, Cullen cleared the lump from his throat and called out to his men. “Inquisition! We are going to use a back exit into the mountains. The Herald has gone to distract the enemy while we escape. Everyone able, help the wounded. We are not leaving a single man behind, if he is still breathing.” A rustle went through the hall as the soldiers scrambled to follow his orders.

Moving as if in a dream, Cullen turned towards the back of the Chantry. The exit would be there somewhere, and he had to find it while his men prepared to leave.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cole move to his side, undoubtedly to help locate the exit with the knowledge he had gleaned from Roderick. “I will never see her again,” the boy whispered.

That was exactly what Cullen had been thinking.


	9. Snowblind

She wasn’t here.

The flare had been lit, the red speck of light spiraling into the darkened sky, signaling that it was safe for the Herald to return. That had been hours ago. With every passing minute, Cullen’s spirits sunk lower and lower. Every minute that she did not return made it far less likely that she ever would. Slinking out of the Haven Chantry’s back door like a thief in the night, Cullen had saved the bulk of the Inquisition’s forces – still, he felt he should have been with her. The Herald had given her life for the Inquisition’s survival, and Cullen should have been beside her until the end.

It was cold, yet he did not feel the chill. He was too deep in his own thoughts, dreading the eventuality that the Herald would never come. They would have to move on soon, he knew. Their injured men needed to get somewhere warmer, and the townsfolk who had survived the attack on Haven hadn’t had enough time to pack any warm clothing before their evacuation. The children, in particular, were freezing. If the Herald hadn’t returned to them by the time they left camp…

“Commander! On the ridge!” Cullen’s head snapped up. A scout was rushing to his side, pointing wildly at three figures that had just become visible, rising over the edge of the ridge in the light of the moon. They were coming from the direction of Haven. Could it be? His pulse pounding in his ears, Cullen took off, racing to meet whoever it was. Dorian caught his eye first. The mage’s robes were torn beyond repair now, one of his shoulders ripped bare and bleeding. Even his moustache was in disarray, and his normally perfectly styled hair stood up in all directions. He wasn’t smiling. Cullen’s eyes fell on Cassandra, whose limp was now even more prominent than it had been all those hours ago in the Chantry. Her forehead was bleeding, her lip split even worse than before. She, too, was grim. The third figure proved to be Vivienne. The mage looked immaculate, as always. She didn’t look the same, however. He had never before seen such emotion in her eyes – the stoic Vivienne was visibly distressed.

There was no one else with them. Cullen was almost too afraid to ask, but he had to know. “The Herald,” he started, but was unable to finish the sentence. Dorian looked up at him and shook his head. With that miniscule movement, the mage crushed all his hopes. “No.” Cullen shook his head, mimicking Dorian’s gesture from before. “No. She can’t be.”

Vivienne put her hand on his arm. Cullen was too shocked to even register that an unfamiliar mage was touching him. He should have been uncomfortable, but there was no room in his head for anything but denial. “Amalia… she stayed behind, she told us to run. The Elder One was there… He was a beast, a horrible monster that called itself Corypheus,” Vivienne explained quietly, her voice full of the sorrow that was beginning to sink into Cullen’s heart. “She… she fired the trebuchet into the mountain. There was an avalanche, and Haven… Haven was buried.” Vivienne’s voice broke. As composed as she always was, the trials of the day were taking a toll on them all – even the forbidding mage.

Cassandra sighed heavily. “It’s true. Amalia was still in Haven when the avalanche buried it. We tried to look for her, but we couldn’t find anything. Corypheus was driven off, his dragon with him… and the red templars were all buried under the snow, along with the Herald.”

Cullen stood silent, his mind whirling as it tried to settle on a feeling. Pride, for the Herald’s final actions had been ones of defiance – she had fought to the very end. Uncertainty, for the Inquisition had lost its most influential member. And, above all, sorrow – for he had lost an important friend. He could see his loss mirrored in the faces of those around him. The Herald had been important to them all.

Without even realizing they had been moving, the group reached the edge of the Inquisition’s temporary camp, which had been buzzing with speculation. Everyone had been vying to share their own deductions regarding what was currently happening on the ridge outside of camp. As soon as the four entered the camp, a deathly silence fell. The reality of the situation was written on each of their faces – they had lost their Herald. They had lost their beacon of hope. Cullen felt numb, his heart thumping in a hollow chest, completely devoid of all feeling. Shock, he told himself. He was in shock.

Cassandra cleared her throat. “Inquisition,” she spoke quietly, but her clear voice carried across the crowd nevertheless, stunned into speechlessness as it was. “The Herald gave her life so we could succeed. She saved us all. We must honor her memory. To do so, the Inquisition must endure. We  _ will _ endure. This is not the end.” A quiet murmur of assent passed through the crowd. The Seeker bowed her head, closing her eyes for a moment before turning her dark gaze back on the people gathered around her. “We must move. There may still be enemy forces nearby, and we would do well to stay out of their reach. We will make camp in the forest a few hours’ journey from here.” Solemnly, the congregation broke up, each man and woman turning to gather their belongings and prepare for departure.

Cullen breathed in deeply. The Herald – Amalia – had given herself for their cause. He needed to be as strong as she had been. Cassandra was right; the Inquisition would endure. And Cullen would keep his last promise to Amalia. He would not fail her. Having collected his thoughts, the Commander pushed aside his grief. These men and women were still in danger, and he had to be focused and alert. He would see them to safety before succumbing to his feelings.

With that, the Inquisition moved camp. Slowly, clambering through the deep snow drifts, supporting the wounded and weak, they made their way toward the forest Cassandra had deemed a safe place to camp. Some of the soldiers had stowed tents in their packs, and scouts were able to find some timber dry enough to burn. Within an hour of arriving at their destination, they had set up a comfortable enough establishment. Together, the Inquisition members huddled around fires and in tents, resting and warming themselves – and mourning. Cullen couldn’t recall ever having been in a more somber camp.

The Herald’s closest companions scattered throughout the camp, seeking comfort where they could. Cassandra was near the large central fire of the camp, violently cleaving logs in half with a bloody war axe despite her battered appearance. The Iron Bull, a mercenary who had joined the Inquisition a few months prior, watched nearby with approval in his eyes. The axe was his. Cullen had never seen the Qunari so silent, prone to laughing and joking as he was. There was no humor tonight. Leliana sat on the other side of the fire, staring into the flames, her arm around Josephine. The younger woman’s shoulders shook as she hid her face in her hands.

Vivienne was standing alone at the edge of the camp, staring out into the forest. No one had the courage to approach her after she had turned a recruit who accidentally wandered too close away with an icy glare the likes of which Cullen had never seen before. Cole weaved his way through the tents, flitting from one Inquisition member to another, speaking quietly with each one at a time before moving on to the next. Warden Blackwall sat on a tree stump, his back to everyone, staring out into the dark forest around them. Keeping watch. Solas sat on the ground next to him, cross-legged in the snow, his eyes closed. Dorian was nowhere to be seen. The mage had erected a tent for himself and ducked into it, refusing to look at or talk to anyone. Cullen’s heart ached for him; the Tevinter had been closest to the Herald. The two mages had been nearly inseparable since Redcliffe. Cullen remembered how he had felt after the events at Kinloch Hold – everyone he had grown up with, every single friend he had in the world, had been gone. The demons that tormented him had not only torn apart his relationships with everyone in the tower, but they had taunted him with his love for his family. Everything they had touched on had been soiled by the very mention of it on a demon’s lips. He had felt so alone, so vulnerable. The framework of his life had come undone, and even now, over ten years later, he was still struggling to rebuild it.

Without having really consciously decided to do so, Cullen found himself at the entrance of Dorian’s tent. After a moment of hesitation, he pulled up the flap and ducked into the dim interior. Dorian was sitting on his cot, shoulders hunched and his back to Cullen. “I’m not really in a conversational mood,” the mage remarked quietly, not turning around. “Whatever it is you need, I’m sure it can be dealt with later.”

“I just…” Cullen started. “I wanted to ask if there was anything I could do, Dorian.”

“Commander Cullen. Well, well, well. I can’t say this isn’t a surprise.” His apathetic tone of voice was at odds with his lilting choice of words. The mage sighed, resigned. “Come in, then. No need to stand in doorways; it’s rude.” There was no force behind Dorian’s characteristic bluster now. The Tevinter finally turned around as Cullen sat on the stool opposite his cot.

Dorian looked nothing like himself. His handsome face, normally so lively and quick with a smile, was expressionless. He was drained of all color, except for his eyes, which were bloodshot and red-rimmed. The carefully styled swirls of his moustache had come unfurled, and his hair was disheveled. He hadn’t even changed out of his torn and bloody outfit. Cullen recognized the half-crazed expression in his eyes. He remembered how that felt. “I’m sorry, Dorian.” Cullen knew there was nothing he could do; even so, the gruff apology seemed inadequate.

“Sorry?” The mage cocked an eyebrow. “Sorry for what? Oh, for the loss of my closest and dearest friend, while I had to stand by idly on her orders – watch her die? I don’t think ‘sorry’ really cuts it, Commander.” His tone of voice was biting, and Cullen immediately regretted his earlier words.

“I only meant…” What had he meant? There were no words to express how Dorian was feeling – Cullen knew. He had been there. “I know how you feel. I apologize, I shouldn’t have intruded.” Cullen started to get up to leave, when Dorian spoke again.

“Don’t.” Dorian’s voice broke, and Cullen sat back down. They fell silent for a moment. “I – I just can’t believe she’s gone.” Suppressed emotion seeped through the Tevinter’s tone, and the mage closed his eyes, bowing his head to hide his face in his hands. “She was all I had.” The pure despair of those five words was enough to break Dorian’s unfeeling charade.

“I know.” Cullen reached up to rub his neck as he spoke. “I… Before I joined the Inquisition, before I was at the Kirkwall Circle, I served at a Circle where the mages... the mages turned to blood magic. Demons ran amok. I was the only one who escaped that tower. My brothers… my brothers, my comrades, they all fell around me.” Cullen’s voice was rough with emotion as he tried to beat down the tears springing to his eyes. “I was left, scarred and beaten. Those men… all those men we lost, they were the last friends I ever had.” Cullen cleared his throat, struggling to keep the composure he had been fighting so hard to keep since he had learned of what had happened.

“Before  _ her _ , you mean.” Dorian didn’t utter her name, but it was clear to both of them who he meant. “She was a singular woman, wasn’t she?” Dorian finally looked up, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “You should have seen how she completely obliterated Mother Giselle for being rude to me.” The mage attempted a humorless laugh, the sound coming out halfway between a sob and a cough. Cullen smiled, despite himself. That  _ did _ sound like her.

“I just wish… I just wish I had been beside her, until the very end. I let her down. She gave her life for me, for all of us, and I didn’t even have the decency to die with her.” Dorian spat out his last few words, his anger at himself tainting each syllable with rage. “She stood down that bastard Corypheus and brought down an entire mountain around herself to save us all. And I wasn’t there, after everything we’d been through, after everything she had done for me.”

“I doubt she would have let you stay, no matter what,” Cullen tried to console him – he could imagine the Herald now, furiously shoving her friend to safety and glaring menacingly at him if he refused to comply with her commands, fire in her eyes.

“She didn’t. But it shouldn’t have mattered.” Dorian sighed, sounding utterly defeated as he wiped a hand across his brow. “Thank you, Commander. I – I must confess that I never really understood what she saw in you. You’re a good man, despite being a templar.”

Cullen took that as his dismissal. “If you need to speak more later…” his voice trailed off, but Dorian nodded nevertheless, having caught the gist of what he was trying to say. The mage turned to face the wall again as Cullen ducked out of the tent. He pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders and waved his hand to Cassandra and then at the forest, indicating his intentions. He needed a moment to himself. Seeing Dorian so undone had brought all his own feelings to the surface – he couldn’t hold it in much longer. Cassandra caught his gesture and nodded. The woods around the campsite were dark enough for him to find some solitude in them, and the Seeker understood his need to grieve in peace for a moment. It was there, away from them all, that Cullen finally allowed himself to feel. Tears immediately sprang to his eyes and he collapsed against a tree, closing his eyes and letting go of the iron control he had been exercising on his thoughts.

She had been his survivor. He had felt, deep in his heart, that she could never be defeated. She had strengthened his faith in the Inquisition. Her unyielding belief in their cause, her unwavering loyalty to her friends and her tireless efforts to build a stronger Inquisition had inspired him. More than anything else, when they had finally warmed up to each other, he had found himself enjoying her mere presence more and more. She had been  _ his _ friend. He hoped she had known that, before the end. How many times had she asked him to trust her? He had never even gotten the chance to tell her that he would have trusted her with his life.

Cullen didn’t know how long he stayed there, reliving every moment he had spent with her, conjuring up her face from his memories so he could look into her eyes one last time. Those beautiful, fiery eyes. Unbidden, the image of her lying cold in the snow, no longer breathing, jumped into his mind. The thought of her unmoving, dead gaze haunted him. He wanted to remember her as she had been, so vigorously  _ alive _ . To him, she had been the very embodiment of a life spent doing something worthwhile – a life spent fighting for what was right. He would not let himself think of her dead.

The silence of the forest was broken by a rustle. Cullen looked up, expecting Cassandra to have followed him. He froze. Instead of the Seeker, he saw  _ her _ . Amalia. She was standing at the edge of the forest, staring at him. His anguish at her loss must have driven him to imagine her there with him. The mirage opened its mouth, fumbling for words between blue, trembling lips. “Cullen,” she uttered, and then collapsed in the snow.

His trance was shattered by that fall. Cullen rushed to her, not caring if she was merely a figment of his imagination. “Amalia? Amalia!” He repeated her name, quietly at first, and then louder, demanding she be real. As he sunk to his knees by her side in the snow, he was struck by the realization that he could touch her. She was truly here. Her eyelids fluttered; she reached toward him, but her strength failed her. Her arm fell back into the snow. As their gazes met, he knew. She was alive. His imagination could not conjure up her eyes in such vivid detail.

“Please, help,” the Herald sighed, her voice little more than a faint whisper.

“Of course,” Cullen murmured. He carefully pulled off his cloak and spread it over her before gathering her up in his arms. “It’s going to be alright, Amalia.” His voice was deceptively calm, while his thoughts buzzed around his head frantically. She was alive. She was here, in his arms, cold and beaten and yet still breathing. Was she still breathing? His own breath caught in his throat. The Herald lay still in the circle of his arms. Too still. Her face was impassive, devoid of all color. She looked almost as he had imagined her, dead in the snow. “No, Amalia, stay with me,” Cullen choked out, tearing off his glove with his teeth to put his fingers to the hollow of her throat. At first, nothing. Cullen could feel his own heart stop – no, there it was. He could feel a pulse. It was faint, but it was definitely there. He had to get her somewhere warm, immediately. Spurred into action by this realization, he stood, surprised by how light Amalia was. Her diminutive stature never ceased to amaze him.

Once again, silence fell as Cullen entered the camp. The unconscious Herald in his arms, he walked through the astonished crowd. Very calmly and deliberately he carried the Herald to his tent, away from the gawking eyes of the Inquisition. He tucked his cloak more tightly around the Herald before setting her down on the cot that dominated most of the space in the tent. Only half awake, she nestled deeper into the warmth of the cloak. Her face, which had been mottled white and blue when he had found her, was slowly regaining its normal color. He sighed in relief.

Outside, the camp had exploded in chatter. The tent flap opened, and Dorian rushed in. “It’s true. You… you found her,” he whispered, incredulity coloring his voice. He stared first at Cullen, and then looked to the Herald, his bloodshot eyes wild with emotion. The mage hurried to kneel by the bed, his eyes intent on the Herald. Cullen copied him, surveying her appearance more thoroughly for the first time. Her skin was still tinged white with cold, and especially in the dim lighting the paleness emphasized how horribly scratched and bruised she was. The large scratches across her lower face and jaw had split open and were oozing bright red blood. The bruises around her eyes were even darker in contrast to her blanched face. Throwing his own cloak over Cullen’s, Dorian took the Herald’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

“Hello, Dorian,” the Herald whispered, the corner of her mouth that wasn’t buried deep in Cullen’s cloak twitching. Her voice was barely a croak. She sounded just as beaten as she looked.

“Hello, love. You gave us quite a scare,” the Tevinter murmured in reply, lovingly sweeping a few strands of hair back from Amalia’s face with his free hand. “Please try not to do that again. I wouldn’t want to have to find a new best friend just yet.”

The Herald scoffed quietly, with as much force as she could muster. “I’m not nearly dead yet, just a little cold.” Despite her weakness, there was defiance in her tone that brought a smile to Cullen’s lips. As if sensing it, Amalia immediately turned her gaze on him. “Thank you, Cullen.” There was a quiet fervor in her gratitude that raised a lump in his throat.

“Anytime,” he answered, his voice coming out choked despite his best efforts. His heart was soaring in his chest. Once again, the Herald had done the impossible – she had survived.


	10. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had some requests for in-game screenshots of Amalia - they can be found http://imgur.com/a/jc19m here, for anyone interested. If someone is interested in getting her sliders, I can also supply those. :)

The Herald’s return had left in its wake a rapport among the entire remaining Inquisition. Men and women, children and adults, soldiers and townsfolk banded together in their amazement. She had once again performed a miracle, and the feeling of unity between those that witnessed it was almost tangible in the days that followed.

The only people exempt from this sense of unity were the ones that should have been its very staunchest supporters. Cassandra slammed her fist down on her table for what must have been the tenth time in the past hour. “We must go to the Chantry for help. There is no other choice.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cassandra,” Leliana scoffed. The spymaster had become more and more sullen as the arguments had dragged on, her disdainful comments gathering venom with each failed suggestion. “The Chantry will not help us. We are alone here, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner we can concentrate on formulating a strategy that will actually  _ work _ .” Cassandra glared at the other woman over the table and opened her mouth to argue. Before she could speak, she was cut off by Josephine.

“Stop it, both of you,” the diplomat sighed. She had been trying to broker peace between Leliana and Cassandra for the past few days, but to no avail. “Arguing amongst ourselves will only make matters worse – what if any of our followers were to hear us? They think we have a plan of action that we will launch as soon as the Herald is well enough. We must not prove them wrong.”

“I agree, Lady Montilyet. We are all on edge, but we must pull together in this fight, as we have in the past,” Cullen chimed in, staunchly looking past the furious glares of both Cassandra and Leliana. “I still maintain that we must find a new base of operations before we can concentrate on anything else. Are there any settlements nearby where we could perhaps pull some strings?”

Josephine shook her head. “You know there aren’t; we’ve discussed this before. Haven was special. The Divine had influence over the town, and we were able to make use of it.”

“Can we not return to Haven? The town could be cleared out,” Cullen suggested halfheartedly; the suggestion had already been brought up numerous times in the past few days, but he feared Leliana and Cassandra would be at each other’s throats again if he didn’t provide some form of distraction. “It’s only snow, our soldiers could –“

“Now  _ you _ are being ridiculous, Commander,” Cassandra snapped at him. “I saw the avalanche. Clearing that snow would take forever – and even if we  _ did _ manage to clear it and any corpses buried in it, we would find all the buildings completely destroyed. We would be no better off there than here.”

“And Corypheus knows the location of Haven,” Leliana pointed out, apparently agreeing with Cassandra for the first time since they had arrived in this blasted forest. “We don’t have the manpower to defend Haven from another attack, even if the Herald managed to cull some of Corypheus’s troops. You know all of this, Commander.”

Despite his best efforts, Cullen’s temper flared. Their strategy meetings had gone nowhere in the past few days and, on top of that, his well-being had continued to decline. The lyrium withdrawal was a constant presence in his body, manifesting as ever-present pain and terrible nightmares. Exhausted and sore, he had found himself unable to hold back bursts of anger a few times in the past few days; he loathed himself for failing to keep his temper on a leash. Cullen took a deep breath before speaking through clenched teeth. “It was just a suggestion, Leliana.” His tone was measured. He would not sink to their level and contribute to this incessant arguing.

“Perhaps we should ask the Herald, when she is well,” Josephine intervened, eyeing Leliana, who had been about to snap at Cullen again. “She hasn’t steered us wrong yet.”

“Perhaps we should just make her the Inquisitor, if we’ve become entirely incapable of making decisions without her,” Cassandra said brusquely. “That would solve this problem – we wait for her to wake up, and until then, we can each prepare a strategy. She can then decide which one we should follow.”

“That’s…” Leliana seemed to struggle for words for a moment, and Cullen half feared she would say something nasty to spark the next battle of their cross-advisor civil war. “That’s actually not a terrible idea,” she acquiesced. Cullen could scarcely believe his ears; Leliana and Cassandra were finally in agreement.

“She has already been our leader,” Josephine agreed. “Appointing her Inquisitor officially would give her even more credibility – not that  _ she _ needs it, but  _ we _ might. Falling out of the breach, closing that same breach and now surviving the attack on Haven after saving everyone’s lives? She’s heralded as a messiah all around Thedas. She would be a credit to our cause as Inquisitor.”

“Why haven’t we thought of this sooner?” Cullen sighed. He agreed with Josephine wholeheartedly. There was no one more suited to the office than Amalia Trevelyan. “We’ve needed to put a face to the Inquisition’s leadership for a quite a while, and she has definitely proven herself more than capable, even before the fiasco in Haven.”

“It has come to my mind,” Cassandra admitted. “I’ve just been waiting for the right moment. The appointment of an Inquisitor is no small feat, and I felt that the situation in which we did so would have to be exactly right. Now, however, we must rally our forces’ spirits. Appointing the Herald as Inquisitor might just work to our advantage in this regard.”

”So we are in agreement?” Cullen asked, wary. He didn’t want to jeopardize the ambiguous truce now resting on the war table. “Everyone can perfect their own plans for action, and the Herald – the  _ Inquisitor _ – can choose between them?”

Leliana and Josephine nodded, but Cassandra sighed. “This all assuming, of course, that the Herald will awaken.” As loathe as they were to admit it, it was a thought that had occurred to them all. The congregation fell silent for a moment.

“We will cross that bridge should we come to it, Seeker. This is no time to be defeatist,” Cullen reminded. The Herald wasn’t dead yet. There was no reason to assume she wouldn’t survive this trial as she had all the others so far. The healers were hopeful; the Herald was young, strong and determined. Cullen had to believe she could pull through.

The exhilaration of the peace they had just achieved proved short-lived. The Seeker had reminded them all of the original source of all the discord; the Herald’s uncertain fate loomed over the head of every member of the Inquisition to know of it, breaking their spirits and separating them from each other in their tension.

The meeting drawn to its conclusion, the advisors exited the war tent one after another. They all kept to themselves, taking great care to distance themselves from each other as they huddled in front of the camp’s central bonfire for warmth. Thankfully, the Inquisition members hadn’t noticed the dissension in the advisors’ ranks. The Herald’s tenuous hold on her life had been concealed, and only her very inner circle informed of the true danger she was still in. It had been decided that the sense of wonder caused by Amalia’s re-emergence was of more value to the Inquisition than telling their followers the truth. Cullen wasn’t sure how he felt about keeping such a secret, but he had been outvoted by everyone else on the council of advisors as the decision had been made – so he was obliged to go through with it. As it was, their followers knew only that the Herald was still weak, but they believed her to be gradually improving. The healers had yet to actually give those in the know such hope.

His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet cough. “Excuse me, Commander. Might I have a word?”

Dorian had appeared at his shoulder. Cullen nodded, getting up from the log he had been occupying near the bonfire to follow the other man. The Tevinter’s mood, which had been momentarily lifted by the reappearance of their Herald, had mirrored the steady decline of Amalia’s health. This was the first time Cullen had seen the mage outside in two days. He spent all his waking hours by the Herald’s side in the medical tent, refusing to leave even when ordered by Mother Giselle herself, who was overseeing the work of the healers. Cullen had finally intervened when the Revered Mother had attempted to have Dorian thrown forcefully from the tent by two Inquisition soldiers. He had informed the Revered Mother that the mage was to be allowed to stay with Amalia, on the condition that he moved aside whenever the healers required whatever space he occupied to do their work. Dorian had been more than happy to comply with this verdict. Mother Giselle, on the other hand, had not been pleased; the woman could not stand the Tevinter. But there was no arguing with the Commander of the Inquisition.

Dorian stopped behind the large medical tent that housed his best friend and the leader of their movement, motioning for Cullen to join him in the shadows cast by the canvas. As Cullen complied, the Tevinter cleared his throat. “Tough time with the war council?” Dorian was deflecting. Even as unfamiliar with the mage as Cullen still was, he had learned quickly that the other man could speak of anything but what he truly thought with ease.

“As always,” Cullen groaned. “Leliana and Cassandra are still up against one another, but we may be closer to a resolution now. The sooner we know what the future will bring, the better.” His implied nod to the Herald’s poor condition pushed Dorian to return to the reason he’d asked Cullen here.

“I just wanted to thank you for what you did for me with Mother Giselle.” Though his voice was quiet, the sincerity of Dorian’s gratitude was clear. “It seems Amalia isn’t the only one willing to stand up to the prejudices of that old windbag.” The mage even managed to crack a small smile – the first Cullen had seen from him in days.

“She was in the wrong,” Cullen replied simply, rubbing his neck in discomfort. Though he had learned to respond somewhat to Amalia’s familiarity with him, he was still unaccustomed to receiving such attentions from Dorian. Brought together by their moment of shared grief, something had passed between the two men. Cullen could feel it, and he knew Dorian could too. Unlike Cullen, the mage had fallen into the pattern of newfound friendship quickly.

“Nevertheless, you sided with a deceitful, slimy, murderous, albeit  _ very _ handsome Tevinter sympathizer against one of the Chantry’s own, in front of many members of the Inquisition. Word has likely spread by now, Commander. Are you prepared to face the consequences of that?” Dorian raised an eyebrow sardonically.

“I’m sure some would see it that way.” Cullen chuckled. “I, however, feel that I stood up against charges unfairly laid at the feet of a valuable member of our cause.” To Cullen, that was what Dorian was, after all – first and foremost, the mage was an ally of the Inquisition. “There are many others in our ranks who come from backgrounds some would deem shameful. It is not my place to judge.” As it definitely was not. Not after everything Cullen himself had done.

Dorian caught the insinuation. “I somehow doubt many would count you among that number, Commander.”

“Not many are privy to everything you know.” In his insomnia, Cullen had oftentimes found himself joining the mage in his nightly vigil by the Herald’s bedside. During these long, dark hours, Cullen had attempted to remedy Dorian’s guilt for leaving Amalia to Corypheus by sharing guilt of his own. Their talks had been most therapeutic for them both; Dorian was rendered an excellent listener by his morose state, and Cullen was unfailingly sympathetic for the mage’s plight. Not only did he share the other man’s worry for their mutual friend, but he had been to the dark place Dorian now found himself in. He remembered how it felt to think you had lost everyone dear to you. The least Cullen could do for Amalia was to console her friend, who was still treated with unearned mistrust and oftentimes outright hostility by almost everyone around him, even within the Inquisition. His Tevinter accent did him no favors.

“I find you a good man, despite all this glorious knowledge. Does that say more about you or me, I wonder? Perhaps it’s just my weakness for tall blond templars clouding my judgment.”

“I, uh… I am no longer a templar.” The tips of Cullen’s ears turned red, as Dorian had undoubtedly known they would.

“Ah, my mistake.” The mage grinned as he spoke, perfectly aware of the havoc his teasing was playing on Cullen’s comfort in their fledgling friendship. It was not the first time he had embarrassed the other man on purpose. “Not to worry, Commander; I don’t have any designs on your person. Your reactions just make it far too hard to resist embarrassing you sometimes.”

Cullen frowned at Dorian, his face still tinged with red. “I’m not quite as amused as you seem to be, but I’m glad to see you’ve regained your  _ wonderful _ sense of humor.”

“Was that snark? From our ever-so-serious Commander? I’m shocked!” Dorian seemed like he was going to continue, but their discussion was interrupted by a collective gasp from the direction of the main bonfire. Both men turned towards the commotion simultaneously, intrigued.

There, standing in the doorway of the medical tent, was the Herald. She was the very picture of vitality, just as Cullen remembered her from before. Her golden eyes glinted in the soft light of the fire, and she had regained her regal poise. Her hair had been intricately braided and pinned back, highlighting her high cheekbones, which had regained their natural, golden-flecked complexion. She looked around, locking eyes with each of her stunned followers. No one spoke; no one moved. And then, solemnly, Cassandra stood and started applauding. One after another, every member of the Inquisition followed suit. They applauded the one who had saved their lives, the chosen one of Andraste, their messiah. They applauded their Herald.

Mother Giselle emerged from the tent behind the Herald, going unnoticed by the gathering crowd. As the applause died down, the Revered Mother smiled, raising her hands to her sides. “The Herald!” she proclaimed, the passion in her voice carrying across the now silent camp. And then she raised her voice in song. “ _ Shadows fall, and hope has fled _ …”

It was a hymn, one Cullen knew well. The last time he had heard it sung he had been surrounded by his templar brothers. It had been their promotion ceremony, the moment they had become true templars. He could still remember the pious gratitude he had felt that day. That moment had been the fulfillment of all the desires he had been working towards his entire life. He had seen his emotions reflected in the faces of his brothers; they were all in awe of what they had achieved. Since that day, the memory had been soured, becoming a bittersweet reminder of the evils he had been forced to endure.

Now, looking around, he could see that same awe and gratitude in the eyes of all the members of the Inquisition. One by one, their followers were picking up the melody, joining Mother Giselle in the familiar verses of the hymn. Cullen took a deep breath to steady himself, his eyes watering and his throat constricting as the music swelled around him. Turning his gaze from the Inquisition to Dorian, his heart filled with the same gratitude he had felt on the first day of his life as a templar. He was once again surrounded by friends, about to embark on a journey that would change his life forever. Only now, he knew for certain that he was following someone worthwhile. Cullen looked to the Herald and found her staring at him in return. Their gazes met, and he smiled at her. Spurred on by her answering smile, he raised his head and joined his voice to those of the Inquisition:

“ _ For one day soon, the dawn will come. _ ” And, in that moment, the words rang truer than they ever had before.


	11. Drifts

It wasn’t that the suggestion had been a bad one. They had needed a new base of operations; Cullen had said as much himself. Finding a livable, self-sustaining environment big enough to house hundreds of people was a challenge in and of itself, not to mention that due to Cullen’s new stipulations the area also had to be defensible. The suggestion had been the only viable one, and yet Cullen found himself hating Solas for it as he trudged through the snow. According to the Herald, Solas knew of an abandoned fortress nestled in the mountains, within an  _ easy walking distance _ . Those had been Amalia’s exact words. This was the fourth day of their journey, and, according to the elf, they weren’t even halfway there. And Cullen’s boots were filled with snow.

Cullen didn’t hate snow, exactly. He also didn’t have a very great fondness for trudging through it for days on end. There had been snow in Haven, too, but it had been nothing compared to the waist-high drifts of powder they found themselves wading through now. Even the most athletic of the Inquisition were complaining of sore muscles by the end of each day. For Cullen, the pain was multiplied – his lyrium withdrawal symptoms had not abated, and in these mountains the apothecary had not been able to procure the ingredients to provide him with the pain relief tonics and sleeping draughts he had come to rely upon. The other day, Cullen had caught his own reflection in the clear ice of a pond and had hardly recognized himself. His face was drawn and gaunt, with a heavy crease in his brow that didn’t seem to entirely fade even when he smiled. The dark circles under his eyes contrasted heavily with his pallid complexion, and his face gleamed with a sheen of sweat brought about by his constant pain. Cullen had turned away, disgusted. This was the face of a man too weak to face his own nightmares. He had noticed Cassandra watching him with a hawk-like vigilance; the Seeker was waiting for the waking hallucinations they both feared. Cullen could only pray that they reached Skyhold before his condition progressed to that point. He knew that the longer he went without sleep, the more he was in danger of losing his grasp on reality.

As it was, Cullen counted the hours until they reached their destination, and he would once again have a respite from the pain and nightmares that were now his constant companions. Without enough horses to mount the entirety of their forces, their progress was painfully slow.

The only ones who didn’t seem to have a problem with their snowy predicament were the Herald and Solas. Solas moved silently atop the drifts, leaving no trace of his passing. “Elven skill”, the mage had said, explaining away his lack of footprints with a casual wave of his hand; yet all the other elves in the Inquisition waded just as deep as everyone else to continue on their way. Solas must have been using some form of magic; the thought made Cullen uncomfortable. He had never fully gotten used to the aloof mage. Contrarily, the Herald just seemed to delight in bumbling through the snow. She was positively gleeful and, for once, not the very picture of propriety. After the two weeks she had spent bedridden in her cot in their forest camp, forced to lie still at the behest of the swarm of healers around her, Amalia had been bursting with energy. As soon as she had been released from the medical tent, she had raced around the camp, getting the entire Inquisition ready for the trek to their new home in record time. And here they were now, moving through the mountain range in as a tired and cold column as any.

Despite the many downsides to the journey, Amalia’s spirits remained undiminished. Her joy was infectious, and she often had many followers around her, eagerly taking this chance to personally converse with their Herald. Cullen admired how well she socialized with any who came to her; Amalia was all easy smiles, grace and sympathetic words, and every member of the Inquisition she came in contact with left with a smile on their face.

Dorian, on the other hand, seemed to share Cullen’s views on the mountain climate. The Tevinter was trailing behind Cullen, his handsome features contorted by a grimace. “How can she stand it?” the mage huffed, gesturing at Amalia, who was laughing as she brushed some snow from the brim of Cole’s hat.

“I truly don’t know.” Dorian stumbled in the snow, and Cullen reached out a hand to steady him. “You seem to be a little out of your element here, Dorian.”

“Truly? Your powers of observation amaze me, Commander,” the Tevinter replied. His snark was slightly dampened by the frantic efforts he made to straighten his mussed hair as he spoke. “The few times I’ve traveled in snow before, I’ve done it atop a very high horse. And on a road.” Dorian huffed again, concentrating too hard on walking to continue the conversation any further.

As it turned out, he didn’t need to bother; their talk was cut short by the beaming Herald. “It’s quite a lovely day, isn’t it?” Objectively speaking, it certainly was. The early afternoon sunlight bounced off the snow drifts, the unbroken pristine snow around them shimmering. Every tree they passed was fringed with a veil of crystalline white. Subjectively speaking, it was cold and the tall snow drifts made even the simple act of walking laborious.

The chilly mountain air had brought an attractive flush to Amalia’s cheeks, and her exceptional eyes were lively with delight. Both Dorian and Cullen glanced at her meaningfully in reply to her earlier question, their gazes expressing what neither had the heart to say out loud: this was horrible. Amalia chuckled at their mirrored glares. “You two have clearly spent an inordinate amount of time together.”

“You know me, Amalia; I can never stay away from the pretty ones.” Dorian grinned, looking sideways at Cullen, whose ear tips were now rapidly turning red. The Tevinter chuckled. “You’re far too easy, Commander.” On that note, Dorian trudged ahead, catching up with Warden Blackwall and engaging the older man in conversation.

It was the first time Cullen had been alone with the Herald since he had rescued her, half-frozen and dying, from the forest. He coughed to clear his throat, which suddenly felt tight. He was sure the color hadn’t fully dissipated from his face yet, either.

The Herald eyed him, an unreadable expression deep in her eyes. She was no longer smiling. “I’ve been meaning to thank you properly, Cullen,” the mage said after they had walked in silence for a moment. “My memories of the incident are quite faint, but I am told it was you that brought about my timely rescue.”

“It’s no more or less than I would have done for any member of the Inquisition,” Cullen brushed off her gratitude. The light in Amalia’s eyes dimmed slightly at his reply, and he hurried to fix the damage done by his blunt comment. “I mean… Oh, Maker. I didn’t mean it like that.” He reached back to rub his neck, agonizing over how to phrase his next words. “You’re a very dear friend to me; I trust you know that?”

“Well, now I do,” the Herald replied. Her gaze had regained its good humor. “I’m glad, Cullen. The feeling is mutual.” Suddenly, she grinned. “Though I’m quite certain you  _ would _ have done the same for any member of the Inquisition. That is no fault.”

An answering smile spread across Cullen’s face. “Well, I  _ am _ their Commander. Who better to see them safe?” Despite the light tone of his words, Cullen meant it. He took the well-being of each and every Inquisition member to heart. Again, silence fell. This time, it was a companionable one. As they walked, Cullen surveyed the Inquisition troops absentmindedly. The attack on Haven and the following two weeks of exile in the wintry woods had left their force wounded and weak, and yet they had lost far fewer men than he would had thought possible. The Herald’s sacrifice in Haven had truly saved them all. The thought sobered Cullen, and he turned back to the woman, meeting her inquisitive gaze. She had been staring at him in turn, and quickly glanced away when caught.

“I also wanted to thank you for Dorian.” Amalia spoke more quietly now, looking towards Dorian. The Tevinter was still talking to Blackwall, gesturing animatedly to prove whatever point he was currently making. The older Warden did not look impressed, his face impassive behind his burly black beard. The other corner of Amalia’s mouth turned up fondly. “There are few in the Inquisition who would have stood up for him against Mother Giselle. Too many fear him for his background.”

Cullen coughed, uncomfortable again. “It was the least I could do.”  _ For you _ , he wanted to add, but couldn’t bring himself to speak the words; they were far too intimate. “He is a good man.” His hand was itching to rub the back of his neck, but Cullen suppressed it. He  _ had _ to stop doing that around her.

“I know.” The Herald looked back to Cullen as she spoke.

“You love him.” It wasn’t a question. Cullen felt a slight pang of regret as Amalia nodded in response. He was jealous. Not because he wanted the Herald to himself – on the contrary, he was immeasurably happy that she had found such a close friend. It had been years since Cullen himself had felt such companionship, but it was only recently that he had come to realize how much he truly missed it. Alone in his tent, in the darkest hours of his insomnia, Cullen had finally found himself able to give in and grieve for those he had lost at Kinloch Hold. His head felt clear, his thoughts his own again. For so long, the lyrium had dulled his emotions. He had been a templar first, a person second. Now that it was gone, the years he had spent ignoring his true feelings were washed away. The memories of the pain and loss caused by that fateful event had sprung to the surface, as fresh as they had been ten years ago. Cullen wasn’t sure he didn’t prefer the lyrium-induced haze, but as the faces of the templar brethren he so missed sprung to his mind, he knew he must stay his course. He owed it to them to remember them. He owed it to them to see templars freed of lyrium.

The Herald had been watching the play of emotions on his face. “I wish you would tell me what was wrong,” she murmured, putting a hand on his arm and pulling him to a stop beside her. The past few days, he had often caught her staring at him, clearly worried about his pained appearance and exhaustion.  _ Of course _ it hadn’t escaped her notice. He doubted there was a single member of the Inquisition that  _ hadn’t _ noticed. He was so  _ weak _ . “If there’s any way I can help…”

“I…” Cullen stammered. He would have to tell her. Cassandra had told him as much: the Herald had a right to know he was no longer taking the lyrium. “I’ve… recently, I, umm…” He stopped for a moment, holding up a hand to indicate that he was trying to formulate a coherent sentence. He was all too aware of her hand still on his arm; his skin seemed to burn under her touch. He savored the feeling, knowing in his heart that once she learned of his weakness they would never be this close again. How could she, strong and determined, still feel the same way about him when she knew of his failure? Gathering his courage, he opened his mouth to speak. “I’ve stopped taking –“

And he was immediately interrupted by a flurry of movement. Someone had run into him, knocking him over into the snow right in front of the Herald. Spluttering, spitting melting snow from his mouth and struggling to get back to his feet in the heavy powdery snow drift he had fallen into, he caught sight of another face close to his, looking quite terrified.

Jim.

Cullen swore under his breath, finally managing to find his footing without slipping back into the snow. Next to them, the Herald had covered her mouth with her hands, clearly attempting to hold back the laughs that had her shoulders heaving and her eyes tearing up. Perfect. “ _ Maker’s breath _ , Jim!” Cullen swore again, fighting against the flare of his temper by closing his eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath. The younger man was still sitting in the snow bank, staring up at his commander in wide-eyed horror. Offering him a hand, Cullen pulled the recruit to his feet. As he brushed the snow from his fur-lined cloak, trying to reclaim what little dignity he had left, Cullen looked at Jim with as little malice as he could manage – he was afraid the expression still came out a glare. “What happened?”

“I… w-we… w-we w-were h-having a snowb-ball fight… w-with the other r-recruits… Sir…” The recruit was stammering in earnest, more flustered than Cullen had ever seen him before. Amalia lost control of her laughter and  _ giggled _ . Cullen’s face was once again burning; he could feel the color rising to his cheeks.

“Try to be more careful next time, Jim,” Cullen sighed. He could not give the recruit a lecture on etiquette now, not while the Herald was in attendance. He gestured for the young man to depart, the gesture perhaps more severe than he intended. Jim saluted Cullen awkwardly and bowed to the Herald before scurrying off towards the other recruits, who were doubled over and howling with laughter.

The moment was gone. Cullen could no longer bring himself to remember the carefully considered words with which he would have revealed his failings to Amalia. Despite himself, Cullen felt relieved. He would be able to enjoy her friendship for a while longer.

The Herald seemed to sense his trail of thought. “We’ll speak later, Cullen.” She had finally regained some measure of self-control, though her cheeks were still pink and her eyes watering with mirth. Cullen grunted in response, red in the face and unable to find his voice. “Varric is right, Commander. You worry too much.” As she spoke, the Herald reached up to brush some snow from his hair. Cullen froze, as he always did when she touched him. This time, though, it was different. He was no longer wary of her because she was a mage. This tension was different. Her fingertips lightly brushed his forehead as she lowered her hand again, administering the same snow-clearing attentions to his shoulders before releasing him from her touch. “There, now you look more presentable,” the Herald remarked casually, seemingly unaware of the effect her ministrations had on him.

He felt like his face was on fire and someone had stolen his tongue. Amalia smiled slightly, looking him up and down in an almost annoyingly knowing fashion. “I’ll give you a moment, Commander. We  _ will _ speak later, however; I won’t forget that there’s still that something you need to tell me.” She turned from him, hurrying to catch up with the rest of their forces.

Cullen shook his head, bemused. He felt like he would probably need more than just a mere moment to collect himself.


	12. Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a moment to laud the incredible response I've gotten from all of you wonderful people now reading this fic. You've truly made my day time and time again with your heartfelt comments, and I would definitely not still be as inspired to write this story without you guys! :) I'd also like to raise a public toast to my glorious beta, dragonagehumor (@tumblr), whose wonderful pedantry is rivaled only by my own. Even the most pretentious comma pusher sometimes needs a kick in the shins, and I'm glad someone is there to give it to me!

Skyhold was colossal. The proud fortress stood on the highest mountaintop of the rocky range of crags, commanding the landscape with its immense physical size. On all sides of the keep, sheer cliff faces of icy rock dropped off into the oblivion of the shadowed valley below. A sturdy stonework bridge connected the keep to a nearby mountain; this bridge was the only possible entrance into Skyhold, short of flying. Cullen had never seen a more defensible structure. They would truly be safe within the impermeable walls of the fortress.

“How was this place ever abandoned?” Awestruck, Cullen circled the castle’s courtyard with the other advisors, taking in their new surroundings. “It’s the perfect keep.”

“Well, not entirely perfect,” Cassandra noted, wrinkling her nose slightly as she kicked a loose brick out of their path. She was right; Skyhold was decrepit. Years of emptiness had left the keep in shambles, though the damage was thankfully situated within the outer walls. The fortress could withstand any invasion, as dilapidated as some of its inner structures were. That was what mattered to Cullen; he would not allow a repeat of Haven.

“It can be repaired.” Josephine was making a prioritized list of future renovations, scribbling on her candled clipboard whenever she thought of something new. Resourceful as ever, she had already sent contact to the best stonemasons, woodworkers and interior designers in all of Thedas. They would have Skyhold back to its former glory – and beyond – in no time.

Their circuit complete, the advisors stopped in the center of the courtyard. After having arrived in Skyhold earlier in the day, the Inquisition’s members had been instructed to pitch their tents all over the main courtyard. Cullen had strictly forbidden that anyone enter the interior areas of the castle before the stonemasons Josephine had called upon arrived. Any risks of collapses needed to be evaluated to ensure that the castle was safe to visit. To ensure his orders were followed, Cullen had organized a guard schedule for each and every door in Skyhold. Regardless of these limitations, there was a lot of room to build a camp, and there were many ramparts and stairs for the more eager followers to explore. Cullen counted himself among that eager number; many nooks and crannies waited to be viewed and catalogued, but that was a concern for another time. Now, they had an announcement to make.

Cassandra locked eyes with each of the other advisors in turn. “Are we ready, then?” Leliana, Josephine and Cullen all nodded. Cullen felt tension coil in the pit of his stomach. What they were about to do would change the face of the Inquisition. He was certain their course was the right one, yet he still found himself praying silently for their plan to go smoothly.

Spotting the Herald meandering through the camp, looking in on the Inquisition members and making sure everyone had their tents set up without any issues, Cassandra beckoned the woman over. Amalia smiled as she reached them, and the advisors exchanged small greetings and pleasantries with her before Cassandra pulled her away to walk the ramparts. Cullen knew what the Seeker would ask of the Herald; he was also fairly certain he knew what the Herald would reply to the request. The thought calmed his nerves slightly. Of course she would agree. She was Amalia, after all. She knew this was best for the Inquisition.

The advisors that remained all seemed frozen in place, each one staring after Cassandra and the Herald as they climbed the stone stairs leading to the upper courtyard before disappearing out of sight. Leliana nodded to her comrades and excused herself as well, hurrying to get to her place in time for the conclusion of their plan.

Cullen glanced at Josephine, who was biting her lower lip thoughtfully, her eyebrows knit together. “Nervous, Lady Montilyet?”

“I am, actually,” the diplomat replied, a smile curling in the corner of her mouth. “It’s a bit silly, really… We know what she is going to say, after all, don’t we?”“We do.” The advisors had been unanimous in their decision to promote the Herald to the role of Inquisitor; they had also been unanimous in their belief that Amalia would accept the post without a second thought. Cassandra was taking Amalia around the upper courtyard now, giving the Herald time to consider before springing the promotion ceremony on her.

Leliana appeared on the ramparts above them, a ceremonial long sword in her hands. She nodded at Cullen and Josephine, indicating that the conversation with the Herald had gone as expected. Both the diplomat and the commander sighed in relief. Amalia’s decision wasn’t a surprise, but it was certainly welcome news.

Following through with his part of the plan, Cullen turned to the tents behind him and called out, “Inquisition! The council of advisors has an announcement to make!” Curious faces peeked out of tents and rounded the corners of the courtyard, and word spread. In a few short moments, the entire Inquisition was present, all staring up at Leliana where she stood with the ceremonial sword still in hand.

“Your Herald has proven herself worthy,” Leliana began. An expectant hush fell over the courtyard. “She has saved us all, delivered us from the very jaws of death time and time again. You trust her judgment, you declare her your messiah, you follow her without question as the Herald of Andraste.”

A murmur passed through the crowd. The Herald had appeared at Leliana’s side. She looked somber, her amber eyes unreadable as she surveyed the congregation spread out before her. The light mountain breeze had pulled some strands of her hair free from its intricate braids, but otherwise her appearance was immaculate. She was dressed in crimson from head to toe in an open-throated robe that wrapped tightly around her willowy frame as the wind blew through it. The dark red silk emphasized her creamy skin and full lips, and brought out more vivid shades of gold in her eyes and hair. Cullen found himself staring, almost slack-jawed despite himself.

Amalia reached out her hand to take the long sword from Leliana’s grasp. She gazed into her reflection in the blade for a moment and then turned her eyes back to the crowd, addressing them in a clear, calm voice. “The true force of this Inquisition is in the hearts and souls of its members. None of what we have achieved could have been possible without the belief and the faith you have all placed in me, and in our cause. We will continue to do what is right, and we will prevail in the fight against Corypheus.” Her passion rang out in every syllable. “Together, we will rend order out of chaos! Together, we will bring peace! Together, we will make this land safe once more!”

“Inquisition!” Cullen cried out as he turned to face his men, swept up into the moment, unsheathing his sword in one fluid motion to point it at the sky. “Will we follow?”

The crowd erupted, roaring its approval for their Inquisitor. Amalia brandished the ceremonial sword, raising it above her head with the hand carrying her mark. As if joining in on the celebration, the wind swirling through Skyhold picked up, carrying the rallying cry of the Inquisitor beyond the walls of the keep, heralding a message of the dawn of a new age – the true dawn of the Inquisition.


	13. Solace

No one ever ventured to the westernmost ramparts of Skyhold. They were remote and difficult to access, the stairways leading to them being some of the most debris-filled in the whole keep. It was here Cullen found refuge in the midnight hours of his insomnia. Hidden between two tall corner towers, comforted by the light breeze cool on his fevered skin and the dim light of the distant stars above, he allowed himself to be lulled into the serenity he so desired; these rare moments of absolute peace washed away his constant pain with efficiency that rivalled the pain relief tonics he so relied upon. Here, in his solitude, he felt like himself again. He wasn’t the scared young templar he had become after Kinloch Hold, nor was he the lyrium-addled Knight-Commander of the Kirkwall Circle. He wasn’t even the Commander of the Inquisition. He was Cullen, just Cullen. A boy who had once dreamt of becoming a templar; a boy with his entire future ahead of him, unbroken by his memories and unchained by vows he struggled to uphold.

He never expected to find another soul here. On that night, however, his silence was interrupted by an unexpected visitor. He was leaning on the ramparts, gazing idly at the moonlit scenery below as he remembered his last day in Honnleath before leaving for templar training. His sister had hugged him, his mother had cried, and his brother had given him a lucky coin. Cullen turned the coin in his fingers, smiling. It was his only keepsake from home; he treasured it, fiercely protective of the engraved metal disc. It was unlike any legal tender he had seen in all his travels. Cullen didn’t know how his brother had come by it – he had never gotten the chance to ask.

She came up behind him so quietly that, lost in thought as he was, he didn’t notice her until her saw her lean on the cool stone next to him out of the corner of his eye. “Inquisitor.” Cullen spoke in a whisper, loathe to shatter the stillness of the night.

“Commander.” She mimicked his quiet tone. “I didn’t think anyone would be up here – I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“It’s no matter. I was just remembering.” He turned toward her now, opening himself up to the conversation. They hadn’t had much time to speak in the last few days; after arriving at Skyhold, the bulk of their efforts had gone into organizing their newfound base of operations. Cullen had even become somewhat thankful for his insomnia. He felt he could accomplish more when not burdened with the daily rest most of his other companions were. Amalia, he had noticed, suffered from the same lack of sleep. He often happened upon her in the war room, reading reports by candlelight when she should have been in bed. He had never disturbed, recognizing how absorbed she was in her work. He knew that look, for he often donned it himself.

“Dare I ask what?” Amalia was careful in her query. She knew how private he was, but she had made no secret of her efforts to get to know him as their friendship deepened. He was glad of it; he relished these rare chances to share his feelings without fear of burdening the recipient.

“This coin.” He opened his palm, showing her the small disc. “My brother gave it to me the day they came to take me away for templar training. I’ve had it ever since. We weren’t really allowed to have personal possessions at the Circle… but I kept it anyway, all these years.” Cullen chuckled, still keeping his voice low.

The corner of Amalia’s mouth turned up in a half-smile. In the light of the moon, she was washed of color, glowing silver instead of gold. He had never seen her hair loose before. It flowed past her shoulders to her mid-back, surprisingly unruly in its natural state. Without her hair severely pinned back, her features were softened, lending her an air of approachability she often lacked. She leaned more heavily on the banister, and a portion of her hair fell in front of her face, obscuring it from his view. “I never took you for a rebel, Commander.” Her voice betrayed her amusement.

“Believe me, this was probably the only time I have broken any rules in my life.” He grinned slightly, remembering. “There was a time when one of the other recruits was caught smuggling sweets into his chambers. They started conducting surprise searches of all our quarters. I was so terrified I would be discovered that I almost threw the coin away… but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I hid it in my sock instead, and lived and slept without taking that sock off.”

“That… doesn’t sound very hygienic.”

“It took weeks for our commanding officer to finally call off the searches. I had to wash the coin vigorously to make it touchable again.” Amalia joined in as Cullen chuckled. “I swore to myself then that that was the last time I would never break any vows. It was far too difficult to live with the consequences. I’m glad I kept this, though. I received the news of my brother’s death not long after that episode. I… I don’t think I could have lived with myself if I had lost this token.” As he spoke, Cullen slipped the coin in his pocket; he was suddenly terrified of dropping it into the chasm below.

“I’m sorry, Cullen.” Amalia tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned towards him, her eyes intent on his. “Sometimes… sometimes we need something to remember them by. You feel as if they are still with you, in a way.” Her voice trailed off, so quiet he could barely hear.

“I wish I had spent more time with him when I still had the chance. The last time I saw him was when I left Honnleath. The day he gave me this. There is… there is so much I never said to him.” His throat felt tight, and he looked away, back at the moonlit mountaintops sprawling in front of them. They fell silent, both staring intently into the distance, their minds on the past.

“I was six when I first killed someone,” Amalia confessed suddenly. He turned to look at her, but she was still staring out into the darkness. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing, quieter now. He had to lean even closer to hear her words. “We were out in the forest, playing – my cousin, my sister and I. My mother had yelled at my cousin and me for getting our dresses dirty, and we were distraught as only six-year-olds can be. Running away seemed like the only option, of course. It was then that we found this meadow. It was beautiful – so full of different kinds of wildflowers we thought it  _ must _ be magic. There was no other explanation. It was there that we decided to live, to build a castle and rule over our forest together. Our subjects would have been the birds and the squirrels.” A smile tugged at Amalia’s lips for a moment, but there was no true mirth in the movement. “Of the three of us, my sister was the smallest. Aurelia always had difficulty keeping up with us older girls, but that never stopped her trying. That day, I was so  _ angry _ at her for having followed us on our grand adventure.” Amalia’s voice shook, and she stopped for a moment to gather herself. “I don’t know what happened. One minute, I was telling her to leave, to go back home and let us play in peace,  _ for once _ . The next, Aurelia was flung across the meadow. She… she hit a tree. I… I pushed her with my mind.” A single tear escaped Amalia’s closed eyelids, glinting in the moonlight as it slid down her cheek. “My mother lost both her children that day. The templars came to take me to the Ostwick Circle only a few hours later.”

Cullen was frozen in place. He couldn’t find his voice. Her pain was raw, immediate as it washed over him, bringing him into her thoughts and feelings. He could feel her heart break beside him. She was expressive even in joy; nothing could have prepared him for the strength of her deepest sorrow. He could not bring himself to fear the mage he knew her to be. Despite all his training, every bone in his body ached to touch her, to bring her relief from her pain in any way he could. He should have been on high alert, listening to a confession of accidental murder from one he had sworn to protect the world from. And yet, here beside him, she was his friend. In a movement that felt as natural as breathing, he swept an arm around her, pulling her close to his chest and enveloping her in a tight embrace. Her body relaxed against him, and her fingers twined themselves into the fur of his collar.

Cullen didn’t know how long he held her, but when she pulled away, he felt like it was too soon. Her eyes glistened with tears, and he knew his cloak would be damp from where she had leaned against him. He didn’t care. “I’m so very sorry, Amalia.” His voice came out a hushed croak, and he coughed slightly, trying to clear his throat without interrupting her next words.

“I… I have never been able to make my peace with what I’ve done. I don’t expect I ever will. There is no way to move past it, only ways to try to endure it.” The mage leaned back against the banister, visibly straining to regain her composure. “When I told you before that I was a well-trained mage, I meant it. I became the most dedicated student at Ostwick. I will never hurt another undeserving soul. The least I can do is give Aurelia that legacy.”

This was his chance. Cullen now knew she would understand if he told her. The lyrium withdrawal he was putting himself through was not unlike her mission to exert stringent control over her magic. He, too, would leave his dead brothers the legacy they deserved. Unable to find a way to phrase it elegantly, he blurted it out before he could change his mind. “I’ve stopped taking lyrium.”

That brought her back to the present. Her gaze snapped to him, immediately taking control of the situation. “How long?”

“Six months.”

As a mage, he knew she would understand the severity of his confession. Despite interacting rarely, mages and templars coexisted closely within circles. They had both spent the majority of their lives in such institutions and had gotten to know the fundamental aspects of life within the other order almost as well as their own. “And your symptoms have been due to that. I’d been wondering. How are you faring?” There was genuine concern in her eyes as she looked at him now.

“It’s… it is not easy. And I fear it is getting worse.” Cullen shuddered despite himself. He feared what the future would bring, though he dared not admit it even to himself. “Cassandra is… watching me. She has promised to find me a suitable replacement should it prove that I am not equal to this task.”

“I know you will do your duty, Cullen. I did not ask about your condition for fear that you would shirk the responsibilities you’ve shouldered.” She placed a hand on his arm. “My only concern is your well-being. The rest will sort itself out.”

She did not question his decision, nor did she ask why he had come to it. Cullen sighed in relief. His full story was perhaps better suited for another time. His memory of her pain was still too sharp. He knew her to be empathetic; he would not burden her further with his problems when she had only just relived her own.

In the silence that followed, Cullen noticed she had yet to take her hand from his arm. He covered it with his own, trapping her fingers in his. The touch felt companionable; the last boundaries between them had been disintegrated tonight.

“I am… I am so immeasurably happy to have met you, Amalia,” Cullen uttered his last confession. “In Haven, before you… before you came back to us... The thought of never seeing you again was difficult to bear.” She smiled at him, releasing his arm but keeping her fingers twined in his. She didn’t reply; she didn’t need to.

They stayed there until the sun came up, hidden from the world in their place of shared solitude: holding hands, not speaking, each lost in their own thoughts.


	14. Chimera

He woke up beside her. She lay on her stomach, arms flung casually across the bed and her golden hair splayed out across the silken sheets. She sighed contentedly in her sleep. Cullen smiled. She was so happy, and he was so happy to be with her. He reached over and tucked her hair behind her ear before leaning closer to place a light kiss on her cheek. She murmured sleepily and turned towards him, cuddling into his side without fully waking. He knew she was always slow to come to in the mornings; the way she sleepily displayed her affection during these early hours was one of his favorite things about her. Because of them, these daily moments of bliss in his tower room in Skyhold had become the highlights of his very existence. “Good morning, Amalia,” Cullen whispered in her ear as he pulled her closer to him.

She turned over then, suddenly fully awake. Instead of the affectionate smile he been expecting, she met his shocked stare with a bare-toothed grin. “I have you now,” she rasped, in a voice not her own. Twisting grotesquely, her features transformed. Her skin darkened and took on a purple hue, translucent scales protruding from where soft golden freckles had lay scattered only seconds ago. Her nose elongated until it formed an almost beaklike curve, sitting on top of her suddenly ruby-red lips. Black twisted horns tore through her scalp, spiraling towards the roof. Her eyes were the last to change; her pupils shrunk into red cat-like slits, and the creamy butterscotch color of her eyes darkened until it glowed a dark purple. Cullen jerked back, frantically trying to detach himself from the desire demon; the creature dug its long talons into his sides to prevent his escape. “Hello, darling. I’m back.”

Cullen swallowed hard to fight the bile rising in his throat. The creature’s scales scraped against his side and it ran its hand lightly over his stomach, to his chest, to his throat… and there it stopped. As the demon’s clawed fingers wrapped around his throat, Cullen tried to yell out. The creature squeezed, strangling his cries. “Now, now… that’s no way to treat your most beloved.” Its voice was a soft purr, made all the more menacing by the way it bared its pointed teeth as it spoke. “You mustn’t struggle – that will only make matters worse than they need to be. Haven’t I given you everything? Haven’t I given you what you wanted? You had her. It is time you do something for me, to show your appreciation for everything I’ve done.”

“Never,” Cullen managed to choke out before the demon twisted its claws into his throat again, cutting off his breath. He gasped for air, eyes watering. The demon frowned in response.

“Now, now. That’s not what you’ve said to me before, darling. All those words you spoke of love and devotion… or did that only apply when I looked human? You love me as her, after all, do you not? What if I were to keep her form? We could be together, always…” The creature’s eyes burned into his. “I could make you forget you ever saw my true nature. You would never know… Your lack of lyrium makes you weak. You do not have the power to fight off a demon anymore. One could be right in front of you, and you would never know… You could be in love with one and never even know it.” Those blood red lips pulled back again as the demon bared its teeth. “Shall we try it?”

Cullen sat up, gasping for air and finally able to fill his lungs. The demon was gone. He was alone. In his frantic struggle against the creature, he had thrown his bed clothes all over the floor. The chill of the crisp morning air streaming in through the hole in the roof above his head caught the droplets of sweat on his skin, and he shivered. The demon had promised to make him forget it was inside of Amalia. Why could he still remember?

The demon had to be here somewhere. Cullen grabbed his cloak off the hook it hung from and shrugged into it before sliding down the ladder to his study. If there was a demon in Skyhold, he needed to find the mage responsible. If the Inquisitor had been compromised, Cullen would have to deal with the situation. Full of resolve, he pushed open his door and turned to the ramparts, on his way to the Seeker’s quarters. Cassandra would know what to do.

Outside Cassandra’s door, he didn’t bother knocking. Even if the Seeker was asleep, she would not mind being woken abruptly for such vital information. It was critical that they attack now, while the demon still wore the shape of the Inquisitor. They could very easily lose sight of it if it had a chance to change its form. “Seeker, I require your assistance!”

Cassandra was not, in fact, asleep. The woman sat by her desk, reading a small paper-clad book. “What do you want, Commander?” She stood up immediately, surveying him critically. “Are you alright? You look terrible.”

Cullen waved her off. “I’m fine. I’ve just seen a desire demon within these walls; I believe it may be masquerading as the Inquisitor.”

Instead of the immediate flurry of action he expected, the Seeker merely took a quiet step toward him. “Cullen,” she began quietly, eyeing him, “are you quite sure? We are safe here – all our mages are being carefully watched, and none of the mages in the Inquisitor’s inner circle would stoop to such measures.” The Seeker continued advancing toward him, walking as if approaching a wounded wild animal. “Maybe it’s not a true demon at all… Do you remember your night terrors? Your lyrium withdrawal?” Cassandra put a hand on his shoulder and guided him gently towards her bed, trying to force him to sit down.

“No! You’re not listening to me, Seeker. I saw it, with my own eyes. It was in my chambers.” Cullen shrugged free of her touch. Why wouldn’t she listen to him? She was a Seeker, and a Seeker’s duty was to protect people from the evils of magic – just like his was, as a templar. Why wouldn’t she do her duty?

“Cullen.” Cassandra put her hand back on his shoulder and pushed him towards the bed, more forcefully now. He sat down, recognizing the authority of a superior officer. A templar was to obey a Seeker’s orders, after all. “Have you been sleeping?”

“One or two hours a night, but I haven’t slept yet tonight.”

“Have you been taking the sleeping draughts the apothecary has been making for you? Are they not working?”

“They seem to be… less potent than before.” Cullen’s head was swimming. Sleeping draughts… he remembered having taken a sleeping draught right before he had sat down in bed. That had to have been right before the demon had appeared. It must have been, but he couldn’t remember how exactly the Amalia-faced demon had come to be in his bed. Why would the Inquisitor have even  _ been _ in his bed?

Cassandra sighed and sat next to him on the bed. “Cullen,” she repeated yet again. “Do you trust me?” She didn’t wait for him to reply before she continued. “You stopped taking the lyrium six months ago, remember? We read those translated Tevinter texts, and they warned us that the side effects of the withdrawal would mimic those of prolonged lyrium use. The book said the far end of the lyrium withdrawal process would include night terrors and paranoia. Hallucinations, Cullen, and very realistic nightmares.”

“I… I remember.” Cullen closed his eyes, burying his face in his hands. “But Seeker, I… I am so certain. The demon –”

“The demon wasn’t real, Cullen.” Cassandra’s voice was softer now. She put her hand on his shoulder again, though this time it was a comforting gesture instead of a commanding one. “The Inquisitor is fine. I saw her only a few hours ago in the war room. She’s probably still working as we speak. She refuses to go rest, even for a little while; she’s even more stubborn than you in that regard. You have to trust me on this, Commander. I promised I would see you through this process. Have I steered you wrong yet?”

“No,” Cullen sighed, resigned. “No, you haven’t. I can’t believe… I was so certain.” In the Inquisition, Cullen and Cassandra were equals, but tonight, Cullen felt more like the young templar who had escaped from Kinloch Hold ten years ago than the strong Commander of the Inquisition. In that mindset, it was easy to default to following the commands of a superior officer. He had, after all, been instructed to follow the orders of Seekers all through his youth. Tonight, Cullen took comfort in the knowledge that the Seeker knew what to do.

“Then trust me once more.” Cassandra patted his shoulder a little hesitantly before placing her hand back in her lap. They were colleagues more than friends, and both of them were uncomfortable with sociable contact even with their closest acquaintances. Physical comfort was not a natural part of their working relationship. “We will have the apothecary adjust the recipe for your sleeping draught. There must be a way to make it stronger. The only way to combat these hallucinations is for you to get more rest. If I must, I will knock you unconscious every night myself.” The comment earned her a small laugh from Cullen.

“Do you think…” Cullen hesitated. He had to ask, even if the consequence of the question was to lose everything he had worked so hard for. He owed it to their cause; the Inquisition was more important than a single man. “Do you not think it best that I step down from my post? If I cannot differentiate reality from dreams…”

“No.” The Seeker’s stance on this matter could not be changed; that much was clear from the very tone of her denial. “I will decide when you are no longer fit to serve, as we discussed. We are in the middle of a war and changing commanders now could be hazardous for our troop morale as well as for your personal welfare. You must stay busy. In the meantime, I will watch you. We will make decisions at the war table with the other advisors as before. Your strategic mind is still of use to us, even if you cannot be at peace at night. As long as this stays manageable and secret from our forces, you  _ will _ serve.”

“Yes, Seeker.” Even worried as he was, Cullen was relieved. He did not know if he could stand to lose his post, not now when it was the only thing keeping him afloat in the sea of pain and nightmares his life had become. He would do his best for the Inquisition, even if that meant sacrificing everything he was and everything he had. “I… I should be taking the lyrium, Seeker. If it is the only way to regain my sanity… The Inquisition _ needs _ me at my best. This is a personal vendetta, and I can take up this battle again once Corypheus is beaten.”

“I will not return your lyrium supply to you, Commander.” Cassandra stood up and moved to her chair. It was clear she was getting ready to excuse him; apparently the subject of retaking lyrium was not up for discussion. “This has never been a personal vendetta. If we can prove that lyrium addiction can be broken… you know as well as I do that this could save the Templar Order. It could mean a new way of life for templars everywhere. It could be the very thing we need to restore the Order to its roots, to what it should have been all these years. Can you really give up now, when we are so close? Do what you will, Commander, but I will not help you obtain lyrium.”

Cullen raked a hand through his hair. She was right; of course she was right. He sighed, his moment of weakness over. He had to be able to endure this. Cullen moved to the door, stopping right before exiting the Seeker’s chambers. “Thank you, Cassandra. Again.”

“There’s nothing to be thankful for, Commander. You’re doing this for both our sakes – never forget that.” The Seeker had already picked up her book again and turned to open it to the page she had been on, but she stopped suddenly. She turned back to Cullen, raising an eyebrow questioningly. “Just one more thing, Commander. In your hallucination, you saw the Inquisitor in your chambers. As a  _ desire _ demon.”

“I…” Cullen’s ear tips had turned pink. “She may not have been a desire demon. Perhaps she was a pride demon. I’m not sure what I saw.” He turned to go, rushing out the door before the Seeker could question his eyesight in addition to his sanity. In fact, he was quite sure. Pride demons and desire demons looked nothing alike – and in his nightmare, the Inquisitor had definitely been a desire demon.

He didn’t stop to ponder the ramifications of that realization.


	15. Motley

Since coming to Skyhold, Cullen’s life had fallen into a comfortable haze of work. He scarcely slept and he rarely ate. Staying busy with reports, guard schedules, troop movements and training regimes kept his mind off lyrium withdrawal symptoms. Concentrating all his efforts into one outlet helped him manage the pain, and, more importantly, retained his grip on reality. Since his first hallucinations a week ago, he had thrown himself even more furiously into his tasks. He hadn’t had another episode. As a result of the apothecary’s new sleep draught formula, whenever Cullen consented to stop his work for a moment he was able to fall effortlessly into a dreamless sleep. He never woke fully rested, but the draught-induced coma was such that he never had to endure half-consciousness upon waking or falling asleep. That was more than enough for him; it was this state of half-consciousness that allowed his mind to conjure up hallucinations.

Interspersed with his duties, Cullen had found himself the unwilling subject of attempts to force him to “lead a more balanced life.” Thus, he was not surprised to find the two perpetrators of these ruses behind the door of his study one late afternoon. “Dorian. Inquisitor.”

“Hello, Commander.” The Inquisitor smiled as she greeted him in turn. Her voice was lilting, her smile sly – she was up to something.

“Why hello, Cullen,” Dorian said from behind his friend, stepping into his office in Amalia’s footsteps. “New décor? I love what you’ve done with the place. It’s very carefree, isn’t it? Reminds me of a simpler time.”

Cullen coughed, rubbing his neck in slight embarrassment. He knew it wasn’t the familiar sparse furnishing of his study that Dorian was referencing. Books, scrolls, articles of clothing and empty flasks lay thrown about the room, scattered from corner to corner in casual disarray. It was most unlike him; Cullen normally kept his spaces very clean. A tidy space helped him think. Now, however, he had forgotten all about everything but lyrium and his duties as Commander; his study certainly reflected this new change in attitude. “I was just… looking for something before you came in.” He didn’t see the need to tell them the room had been unkempt for quite a few days now.

“Ah. I can see that.” Dorian didn’t sound entirely convinced, but he let the matter drop.

“What can I do for you?” Cullen tried to turn the conversation to less embarrassing subjects.

“We’ve come to collect you.” Amalia’s smile widened as she answered his question. “You’re to follow Dorian.”

“Inquisitor, I have a lot of work to do… Are you quite certain this can’t wait?”

“You work too much, Commander.”

The Inquisitor’s tone invited no further conversation on the subject, but Cullen couldn’t resist. “I should think you wouldn’t be one to talk, Inquisitor. You work longer hours than I do.”

Dorian snorted, uncharacteristically undignified in his mirth, and the Inquisitor grinned. “Regardless… follow Dorian. Inquisitor’s orders.”

Amalia was not a woman to be argued with if her mind was made up. Cullen sighed and shrugged into his cloak, indicating with a hand that Dorian could proceed. The mage flashed him a quick smile before ducking out the door, and Cullen followed obediently.

They walked in silence. After the Inquisitor had stopped by the tavern and left their company, Dorian led Cullen to the back courtyard gardens of Skyhold. There, hidden underneath the stone arbor dominating the garden’s central lawn, was a chess set. Cullen had never seen its like. It was a beautiful game, each intricately decorated piece hand-carved from black or white marble. The board itself was also polished marble, its markings fine threads of inlayed silver. Two matching stone chairs stood on either side of the board. “What… what is this?” Cullen almost whispered, looking to Dorian.

The Tevinter was grinning. “I trust you’ll like it. Amalia said you were pining for a chess set the other day, and we thought it seemed like a lovely way to bring some more culture to Skyhold. It’s all yours, Commander.”

“I… I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Dorian. And the Inquisitor.” Cullen was dumbstruck. He was certain this was the best gift he had ever received. He had told the Inquisitor about his love of chess a mere two days ago and had lamented how long it had been since he had last played. He would never have expected for her to actually act on his wishes like this.

“It was all the Inquisitor, I assure you. I only helped her pick out  _ this _ particular set. For such a capable woman, she is remarkably flawed when it comes to aesthetics. She would have picked out an ugly little wisp of a wooden set, but I thought you needed something that could be situated  _ outside _ . The entire point of this was to get you out of your office every now and again, hm?”

“I must thank her. This is… most generous.” His words had never felt so inadequate. He knew how much a chess set like this could cost; the game wasn’t very common in Thedas and mostly played amongst the nobility, if at all. Especially a game of such fine make was hard to come by. It hit him once again how exceedingly lucky he had been as a child; his father had gotten a small wooden chess set in trade from a local merchant who had been going out of business. That one little game board had sparked a lifetime love of chess in him and his siblings. It had been a fairly unimpressive set, and Cullen could barely believe this exquisite item in front of him was even the same game. “I hope the Inquisition’s –“

Dorian cut him off, seeming to sense his trail of thought. “Amalia thought you might worry about that. The funds for this were taken from the Inquisitor’s personal coffers. She told me to tell you it was her pleasure, in case you felt thanks were in order. You are also not to complain or attempt to reimburse her in any way.”

Cullen had slowly been advancing upon the game. He was almost afraid to touch the board, for fear of soiling its beauty with his dusty fingertips – he had been going through old maps all day, after all. Dorian, however, sat confidently in one of the chairs and moved a pawn. “I challenge thee, Oh Great Commander. Does your military prowess translate to the chessboard, I wonder?”

With that, Cullen’s trepidation disappeared. “It certainly does,” he replied with a smirk, taking the other chair. His mind was already working, drudging up all his memories of previous chess games and the numerous books on chess theory he had read as a child. Very deliberately, Cullen placed his fingers on his pawn of choice and moved it two squares forward. The movement was intensely satisfying. Oh, how he had missed this.

“You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” Dorian interrupted Cullen’s reverie. The mage had been studying him closely, surveying his health based on the color of his skin and the darkness of the shadows under his eyes.

“Well enough.”

“Clearly.” The mage fell silent for a moment, considering the board. When he finally moved his chosen piece, a knight, he continued the discussion. “I came across an interesting ancient Tevinter text in my reading. It chronicled the symptoms of lyrium use and withdrawal in families who had tried to inject magic into their bloodline by dosing their children with lyrium.”

Cullen froze. He hadn’t told Dorian about his withdrawal. “I… ah… that’s very interesting, Dorian.”

“Yes, isn’t it? Curiously enough, I found that a lot of the symptoms the book described as part of the withdrawal process match what I’ve been observing in you for quite some time now. Nobody told me about it, I assure you. Not even Amalia; though I suspect she knows?”

Cullen nodded in reply, unable to find his voice. The Tevinter didn’t seem fazed by his silence, instead taking it as a sign that he was correct in his assumptions.

“I wouldn’t have intruded upon your privacy like this if I didn’t have some interesting news on this front, however.” The mage gestured toward the board, indicating that Cullen should make his next move. The Commander complied, hastily moving a piece to continue the conversation. “The book also cited some ways to ease the pains of the withdrawal process, which I thought might be of interest to you.”

Now  _ that _ had Cullen’s attention. “Truly? As long as these medications don’t involve blood magic, I’m all ears.”

Dorian chuckled. “Well, there were certainly a few very  _ interesting _ cures for the symptoms. These were all too ghastly to relay, though they were cited as the most effective. They were not, however, cures I could imagine one such as yourself even attempting, and so I won’t put either of us through the embarrassment of describing them. You’d turn quite pink in no time.” The mage shivered exaggeratedly, leaving Cullen to wonder what horrors the text had described. He felt quite certain he would rather not know. “Some were surprisingly humane for an ancient Tevinter text, however,” Dorian continued, “there was one in particular that seemed like it would be worth a try; it involved a tincture of felandaris extract. Apparently, the felandaris binds the lyrium residue in your blood and stops it from interacting with your body. It won’t help with the nightmares and hallucinations, since those are a construct of your mind in reaction to the lack of lyrium, but the physical aspects of the withdrawal should ease. The fever, the sweating, the aches… and I’m certain I, for one, would be quite pleased with a less sweaty Commander.” Dorian wrinkled his nose pointedly.

Cullen didn’t even hear the gibe. His mind was reeling; this all sounded too good to be true. “I assume this felandaris is a rare herb?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Quite a lot of it is needed for a very small amount of extract, as well, and the apothecary who handles the plant must be quite skilled. It has some less-than-desirable qualities in addition to its use in this matter.”

That was somewhat disheartening, but Cullen smiled nevertheless. “Thank you, Dorian. You have no idea how much relief just the thought of this has brought me.” Just the thought of a single painless day had him almost euphoric. Even if the extract didn’t directly overcome the nightmares and hallucinations, without the pain and fever he would be able to sleep more naturally. That added rest would lessen the likelihood of hallucination episodes, which were born of exhaustion.

“Don’t thank me yet, Commander. We don’t even know if it will work. I believe it is worth a try, however. It also won’t provide a long-term cure, according to the text. The lyrium in your body becomes resistant to the felandaris extract sooner or later, and it stops helping. It should bring about some relief, though, and let you sleep a while in peace. You look like you need it.”

Cullen waved his hand, brushing away Dorian’s concern. “I’m fine.”

“So you’ve said.” Dorian rubbed a hand along his jaw thoughtfully, and then fluidly changed the subject. “Well, now that that’s over, let us continue our game!”

Cullen soon found himself entirely immersed in the game again. While the rules and some basic movement patterns came back to him very quickly, he was very rusty. Dorian proved to be a far tougher challenge than he could have anticipated. “You’ve played chess before,” Cullen remarked after a particularly devious play on Dorian’s part.

“Of course I have, Commander. You, on the other hand, have clearly not had enough practice.” The Tevinter was smirking in earnest now.

“I’m a little rusty, I’ll admit.” Cullen answered Dorian’s smirk with one of his own. “However, I will still win.” His bluster was short-lived; soon after, the game ended in a stalemate when Dorian could no longer move any of his pieces.

Cullen found himself regretting the inevitable return to his work after the end of the game. He’d enjoyed himself more than he had in quite some time; all the aches and shivers of his lyrium addiction had disappeared, and he could barely remember what nightmares he’d had last night. Dorian and the Inquisitor had been right: he  _ had _ been missing the fresh air outside his office. His mind felt clearer than it had in days.

“Another game, Commander?” Dorian, with a perceptiveness Cullen had long since grown used to, seemed to somehow sense what Cullen was thinking. The Commander smiled.

“Gladly.”


	16. Candles

Cullen had left his reports in the war room. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head and cracking his knuckles. It had been hours since he had looked up from his desk, and his neck was certainly feeling the pain of that now. A walk down to the war room might be just what he needed to be able to continue his work relatively comfortably – and he certainly couldn’t get any further with this troop movement analysis without the scout reports on the region in question. Judging by the color of the sky, it was well past midnight. He still had at least a few hours until he needed to report back to the other advisors with his new strategy; there was more than enough time to run down and fetch the reports he needed.

Slipping into his cloak, Cullen stepped outside and headed toward Skyhold’s main hall. The crisp night air was revitalizing, washing away his sleepiness. It had been a snowy day, and the newly fallen white drifts glistened in the light of the crescent moon above. Skyhold at night was serene in its silence, a stark contrast to the constant bustle of daytime activity. Cullen passed Jim on guard duty on the ramparts and returned the young man’s respectful salute with a slight nod of his head before continuing on his way. A lieutenant had sentenced Jim to midnight guard shifts for the next week as punishment for having accidentally dropped a sword off the ramparts a few days ago. Cullen bit back a small smile at the memory; it would be unkind to find humor in the poor boy’s misfortune. Jim never seemed to do anything right, no matter how much he tried – but his heart was in the right place. Cullen had been forced to take action many a time upon finding other soldiers laughing at or teasing Jim. It wouldn’t do for him to sink to their level. The Inquisition was a force of believers, built upon strong ideals and principles; they wouldn’t turn away anyone who truly wished to help, no matter how incompetent.

Deep in thought, he opened the door of the war room without knocking, knowing it would be empty. The other advisors had all retired to their private haunts to work on their respective strategies for tomorrow’s meeting, and the Inquisitor was nursing a bad chest cold and had been forced into bed by the combined efforts of Dorian and Josephine earlier that day. Cullen crossed quickly to the far corner of the room and started shuffling the piles of papers, looking for the two he needed. He almost jumped when he heard a quiet cough behind him and whirled around to see that he wasn’t alone after all.

“Inquisitor, what are you doing here?”

Amalia, concentrated on her work as she was, hadn’t noticed him enter. She looked up, quickly covering the book she had been immersed in with a map when she recognized him. “Hello, Cullen. I was just… doing some reading,” she admitted, one corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. Her smile was sheepish; she had been caught red-handed in wrongdoing, out of bed when she shouldn’t have been.

“You’re  _ supposed _ to be resting.” Cullen left his report stacks and walked over to the Inquisitor. He felt simultaneously amused and worried; she had been very ill earlier that day, and it was definitely not a good idea for her to be wandering around the drafty castle in nothing but the silk robe she was wearing. In fact, she still looked very ill. Her face was pallid and her gaze fevered. The dark shadows under her eyes were rivaled only by those under his own.

“Everyone needs to stop fussing over me; I’m perfectly alright! It’s just a little cold.” Her protestations were rendered rather ineffective by a slight tremble in her voice. Her shoulders were shaking from the chill of the room.

Cullen sighed, reaching up to detach his cloak from his shoulders. “Be that as it may, there’s nothing so important that you can’t sleep for a few hours now. None of the advisors will be ready with their reports until morning, and you would do well to rest until then. You’re looking tired.” He didn’t mention the trembling. It would only provoke her to protest further. “And as one of said advisors, I really must advise you to  _ get some rest _ .” She wasn’t the only one capable of being stubborn.

Amalia stood, but instead of turning to the door as he hoped she moved to his side, clearly not about to comply with his wishes. “You’re really not one to talk, are you?” Her voice came out far softer than he expected. She hadn’t rejected his cloak, instead pulling it closer to her shoulders as she stood in front of him. Slowly, carefully, she reached up and ran a single finger along the dark shadow under his eye. “I just… I just want to help you sleep.” Her last sentence almost came out a whisper as she looked up at him. Their eyes met; time seemed to stop. Cullen’s breath caught in his throat. His skin burned where she had touched him, and he could feel his pulse pounding in his ears as he looked down at her. His eyes wandered across her face, from the light trail of freckles running over the bridge of her nose to the swirls of loose hair framing her cheeks to the soft curve of her full lips. Cullen swallowed, unable to formulate coherent words or tear his gaze from her.

“I… I am sleeping just fine.” With all the willpower he could muster, Cullen cleared his throat and turned towards the war table. He avoided looking at her as he marshaled his wits, addled as they were by the intensity of her gaze. “Besides, Dorian said he’d look into a cure for the pain, something about an herb called felanda–…“

Cullen’s explanation trailed off. As he spoke, he had absentmindedly uncovered the book the Inquisitor had been reading:  _ Rare Herbs of Thedas _ . Shaking his head in denial, he opened the book to a page that had been dog-eared.  _ Felandaris _ , read the title of the chapter. He’d suspected as much. “Please tell me you haven’t been staying up  _ all night _ while you’re  _ ill _ to research a cure for my withdrawal symptoms.”

The Inquisitor had walked around to the other side of the table, but now she was the one avoiding his gaze as he looked up from the book to stare at her incredulously. “Well… I…” Amalia stuttered, uncharacteristically ineloquent. “Like I said, I wanted to help you sleep.”

Cullen wasn’t quite sure how to feel. A warm, pleasant feeling was spreading through his body. At the same time, his stomach turned. He felt guilty. She had been sacrificing her own health for him, for who knows how many nights now. “I…” His voice came out a low croak, and he stopped to clear his throat before continuing. “I appreciate it, Amalia, truly, but I will not have you falling even more ill for my sake.” His cheeks were burning, and he hoped the candlelight would mask the blush he knew was visible there.

“But I found out where it grows,” Amalia protested. “It can only be found in places where the veil is thin, so I can look for it while I go close rifts. I was going to leave next week, but with this new information it would perhaps be better to leave sooner…” A violent fit of coughing cut off her excited explanation.

“I can last another week of this. I’ve been handling it for six months, after all,” Cullen assured her, slowly advancing around the war table to her side. “If you’re so keen to help me, could you do me this one favor? I would rest better tonight if I knew you were asleep in the warmth of your bed.” He smiled, attempting reassurance. “You cannot go out until you’re better, after all, and rest is the best medicine for a cold,” he repeated the words of wisdom his mother had always said to him when he had been ill as a child.

She could not argue with his logic. Amalia sighed, pulling the cloak closer around her shoulders, and nodded in assent. Cullen felt a surge of happiness; it wasn’t often that he prevailed in a conflict with her. He put one hand on her shoulder to turn her towards the door. “Up we go, then!” The elation of his victory had made his voice more cheerful than was perhaps necessary, and Amalia rolled her eyes in response. Nevertheless, she exited the war room by his side.

The Inquisitor’s bedroom wasn’t far, thankfully. Not giving her the chance to slip away, he walked her all the way to the staircase leading up into her chambers. At Amalia’s insistence, the hallway to her quarters was the last place in Skyhold to receive the attentions of the stonemasons and interior decorators hired to fix the keep. As such, there was an abundance of rubble at their feet. The large, domed windows were cracked and dirty, moonlight filtering in thin rays through the glass and casting long shadows across the floor. The Inquisitor ascended a few steps along the stairway, and then stopped to turn back and look at him. Her fingers grasped at the clasp of the cloak; she clearly intended to return it to him. Cullen took her hand in his own, stopping her. “You can return it tomorrow. I’m not in nearly as susceptible a state as you are.”

The feeling of her skin against his unleashed something within him. They stared at each other, and, as he looked deep into her eyes, Cullen’s impulses overwhelmed him. In a movement he had practiced in his head a thousand times in the past few seconds, he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Good night, Amalia,” he murmured against her hand before letting it go. She stared at him a moment, her eyes unreadable and a faint flush rising to her cheeks. Doubt raced through Cullen’s mind. Had he gone too far? Was she upset with his behavior?

Finally, she smiled. “Good night, Cullen.” Amalia turned to go, his cloak billowing around her as she ascended the steps. As he watched her leave, Cullen let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He had kissed her hand, and she had smiled. A slow, delighted grin spread across his features in answer, though she was no longer here to see. He moved to the window, his mind reeling with thoughts full of Amalia.

Thinking about the Inquisitor had become a habit of late; until recently, he had supposed it was because she was the leader of the order he served – and yet he had never felt this way about his former Knight-Commander, Meredith. Amalia was magnetic. Whenever they touched, whenever she looked at him, his pulse quickened. At first, this had all been because she was an unfamiliar mage, untrusted and possibly dangerous. But now… now, he didn’t know what to think. He wanted to spend time with her more than he had wanted to spend time with anyone in a long, long time. Cullen knew it was wrong for him to feel this way. She was the Inquisitor. And yet, the memory of her skin against his lips was unshakeable.

For a long while, Cullen stood, staring out into the starry sky through a crack in the window glass. Over and over again, he replayed the last few moments he had spent with her in his head. The feel of her hand upon his lips, his racing pulse, and above all the way she had smiled at him. She hadn’t been angry or upset; he hadn’t crossed any boundaries with his impulsive actions. She had  _ smiled _ . If he had been elated before, knowing he had outmaneuvered her in an argument, he was beyond euphoric now.

In the midst of his reverie, he heard footfall on the stair behind him. Without turning around, Cullen knew the Inquisitor was trying to make an escape back to the war room. His suspicions were confirmed by a muffled curse and the sound of someone making their way back up the stairs. He chuckled quietly, and then turned to go. If she was determined to escape, there was nothing he could or would do to stop her. Besides, he still had work to do. Cullen wouldn’t let his personal feelings get in the way of tomorrow’s meeting. After rolling his shoulders to release his tension, the Commander made his way to the war room to finalize his strategy proposal.

He was able to concentrate, but just barely.


	17. Civility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys! :) My university courses have resumed, so I'm a bit short on writing time and inspiration now. This definitely isn't an abandoned project, though, not to worry - I'll keep working on more chapters whenever I have the time!

Varric had absolutely demolished the peace of the advisory council. Cullen could do nothing but nod in agreement as he watched the Inquisitor pace in circles around his desk, ranting and raving as she went. From his vantage point beside his window, Cullen could clearly see the glint of anger in Amalia’s eyes and the enraged blush on her cheeks.

“He has no idea if Hawke and her contact will even be of assistance in this matter, and then he just springs her on us like this! Cassandra is furious; our whole war table is caught in a civil war…” Amalia accentuated her points with her hands, waving them furiously as she spoke. “He could have at least told  _ me _ about Hawke before we let Cassandra know! There will be no living with either of them now, and of course I’m stuck being the middleman in their argument.”

Cullen nodded, trying to keep his voice calm to help the Inquisitor regain control of her fury. “I know, Inquisitor. It was poorly timed, but Varric does have a point – we need to figure out what’s going on with the Wardens. Leliana has been worried about their situation since Haven, and Blackwall is far too solitary to be of any help, even for a Warden. Hawke’s Warden ally could have valuable information. If Corypheus truly is darkspawn, they may know how to defeat him.”

The Inquisitor sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Yes, I know. And you’re right, of course you’re right. It just goes against everything the Inquisition stands for to squabble among ourselves, and Varric has put us right in the middle of a situation that can’t be resolved without someone getting upset.”

Cullen could do nothing but agree with her assessment. Though his intentions had been nothing but honorable, there was a certain fault in Varric’s timing. The dwarf had called Hawke to meet with the Inquisitor at Skyhold right after spending months convincing the Seeker that he had no idea where the Champion of Kirkwall currently was. Cassandra was livid. On top of everything else, Varric had opted to tell the Inquisitor about Hawke’s imminent arrival while Cassandra was present. Amalia hadn’t even had a chance to prepare Cassandra for the news. Cullen could understand why the Inquisitor was upset. An angry Cassandra was no one’s idea of a pleasant companion.

Amalia slumped down in the desk chair in front of him and burrowed her face in her hands, groaning in exasperation. She had only just returned from trying to reason with Cassandra. The negotiations had apparently not been very successful: the Seeker was still bent on killing their resident dwarven author. Cullen felt a small sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that it had been him the Inquisitor turned to in this state. There was a slight tingling in his fingertips; he wanted nothing more than to reach over and rub her shoulders to ease her tension. Resolutely, he shoved away the thought. He had indulged these impulses far too much as of late, jumping at the chance to tap the Inquisitor’s shoulder or brush a leaf from her hair. These innocent touches always left him weak-kneed and red in the face – even more so when Amalia was the one who initiated them.

“Is it too much to ask for everyone to just get along for one damned day?” Amalia’s voice was muffled; she hadn’t taken her face out of her hands to speak.

Cullen laughed quietly. “Unfortunately, Inquisitor, I’m afraid the internal squabbles of the entire Inquisition rest on your shoulders. We’re a large enough force by now that those squabbles will be many.”

“I’m beginning to realize that. I should outsource the handling of all interpersonal affairs to Cole, or something.” Amalia sighed, finally taking her face out of her hands and brushing a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. She had clearly regained control of her temper. Cullen had only recently begun to understand just how fiery that temper could be when provoked and was all the more impressed by the restraint she always showed in her official persona. It was only in these moments of absolute privacy that the Inquisitor ever let the strength of her emotions be seen.

“I don’t know if that’d be such a great idea. Cole would just solve all the problems by stealing cabbages or other cruciferous vegetables,” Cullen remarked dryly. He still hadn’t quite forgiven the boy for robbing many of his men of their daggers a few weeks back, though he did not doubt Cole’s heart had been in the right place.

“It was beets, Cullen. Beets are decidedly non-cruciferous.” Despite some factual errors, his ploy had worked. Amalia turned in his chair and smiled up at him, having regained some of her normal good humor. “Thank you for listening. I’ve been aching to complain to someone, and Dorian’s slightly  _ indisposed _ at the moment.”

Cullen stopped momentarily to wonder about the way her nose wrinkled when she spoke of Dorian, but was pulled out of his thoughts by the realization that he had been quiet for a little longer than was usually acceptable when replying to an expression of gratitude. “Ah… you’re quite welcome, Inquisitor.” His recovery came a second too late, and, to his horror, he felt the blush rising to his cheeks.

Amalia cocked an eyebrow at him, but thankfully didn’t feel the need to comment on his skills as a conversationalist. It was, after all, more the exception than the rule if he managed to keep it together for an entire conversation with her. Cullen bit back a groan. He spent inordinate amounts of time imaging how to relay whatever he needed to say to the Inquisitor, yet everything still came out all  _ wrong  _ whenever he was in her presence. It was ridiculous.

He coughed to break the silence that had fallen, struggling to find something to say. “I… I am always at your disposal, as I’m sure you know,” he continued his acceptance of her gratitude from before, unable to think of a new subject of conversation.

At his words, Amalia turned her gaze away from Cullen. “Likewise, Commander.” Her voice was low, her reply more than subdued than usual. Had his expression of eagerness made her uncomfortable? Cullen coughed quietly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I didn’t mean –“ His voice broke off. He wasn’t quite sure what it was that he hadn’t meant. Again, he struggled for words for a moment. “I… I meant no offense, Inquisitor.”

She looked back to him, a wry smile twisting the corner of her lips. “You never do, Cullen. I know that.” Her tone was completely back to normal now; she sounded as amused as always. More than anything, her knowing response to his almost-apology just left him more confused. They stared at each other for a moment, neither being able to think of anything to say. Finally, Amalia rolled her eyes in acknowledgement of the awkwardness that had fallen between them. “I’ll meet you in the war room later. I still need to talk with Varric.”

She got up to leave, the fabric of her silken robe brushing his shoulder as she passed him on her way to the door. She was already in the doorway before Cullen got his thoughts together enough to bid her farewell. “Inquisitor?” Amalia turned at his call, her eyebrows rising in question. “Try not to kill Varric. He tried to do what was right, at least.” He offered her a small smile.

She rolled her eyes in response. “It’s not  _ me _ Varric should be afraid of, Commander. We may need to post guards outside his door until Cassandra calms down.” The tension between them thus diffused, Amalia returned his smile with one of her own. “We’ll speak later, Cullen.”

And then she was gone, leaving Cullen once again staring after her, wondering how it was possible that the wits of the Commander of the Inquisition could be so rattled by a pretty pair of eyes and a sly smile.


	18. Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all my lovely readers! :) As of right now (22.02.2015) I'm completely swamped with school work, and I'm going to be busy until the beginning of March. After that, however, I'm going to be picking this fic back up. Sorry for the wait - it's been killing me too!
> 
> NOTE: Reading this back today (28.10.2017) I am kind of dying. Yeah, after this, I went away for over two years. It's okay. These things happen. I was swamped with school work, as I was applying to law school. I got in. It's all good.

The chess games with Dorian continued. Whenever the Tevinter mage was in Skyhold, they would play for a few hours every day. At first, they had chatted as they played, the conversation providing a companionable backdrop to the game. Each player would make offhand comments while waiting for the other to finish his move. Their subjects had been the weather, how the reparations of Skyhold were progressing, what the cooks were making for dinner – all innocent, nothing deeply personal.

However, as Cullen regained his prowess and Dorian learned some new tricks, they became truly evenly matched. Soon, the war they waged across the battlefield of the chess board began to demand the full attention of both players. Their conversations became scarce; often Cullen would look up to see that the sky around them was darkening and realize that neither of them had said a word since midday. Those days were the best ones. As much as Cullen enjoyed speaking with Dorian, there was nothing quite like the absolute peace in his mind after a hard-won victory born of hours of intense, silent gameplay. His head felt organized. He could think clearly. The constant cravings, aches and worries brought about by his lyrium withdrawal were as good as gone. More than anything, it was this serenity that Cullen sought as he eagerly came to the chess table time and time again. It was as the Inquisitor and Dorian had predicted: the chess set provided Cullen with a very welcome relief from his hectic life. The effects of the chess set stretched far beyond the game itself. Cullen found himself sleeping better, concentrating more easily and even being able to ignore the physical aspects of his lyrium withdrawal effectively. The pain was still his constant companion, but, at the moment, it was not his ruler. It had been years since Cullen had felt like he was the master of his own mind. The sensation was exhilarating. He hadn’t realized how much the lyrium had been dulling his senses until he was released from its hold.

And so it was that Cullen once again found himself at the chess board, sitting across from Dorian. The Tevinter always twirled his moustache whenever Cullen had the upper hand – and this particular game had been very much in Cullen’s favor. The intricate swirls of hair on Dorian’s upper lip were bristling every which way.

“That smirk does you no credit, Commander,” Dorian remarked wryly as Cullen once again made a move to press his advantage. The mage attempted to counter, but the execution was lazy. He knew he had already lost.

“But I should think this move does.” Cullen grinned and moved his piece in front of Dorian’s king. “Checkmate. How much credit did I earn from that, I wonder?”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “I’m not sure I’m entirely used to you having a sense of humor yet, Commander.” The mage flicked his king, and the piece fell to the board with a quiet clatter. “I’m not quite at my best today, I’m afraid. Perhaps we should move the rematch to tomorrow.”

There was something off about the Tevinter’s tone – and he certainly hadn’t been playing as intently as usual. Cullen had picked up on that early in the game, but hadn’t wanted to press the issue. He knew Dorian relished the serenity of their chess games as much as he did and hadn’t wanted to bring outside problems into their safe haven.

“Are you alright, Dorian?” Cullen kept his voice quiet and his eyes on the board. As uncomfortable as he still was with all manner of personal conversation, he was concerned for his friend. The urge to try to help won out against his discomfort.

“I’m quite a bit more than alright, Cullen.” The mage’s tone was still odd, but now that Cullen was really concentrating he came to realize the difference in Dorian’s tone wasn’t necessarily one of sadness. Cullen looked up, confused, only to see Dorian positively beaming at him. “There’s been some very positive development in my personal life, Commander. I’d prefer not to speak of it in more detail, but I suppose you deserve to know that  _ something _ has happened, since this will have an effect on my worthiness as an opponent. I may be slightly distracted for a little while.”

“I… I see.” In fact, Cullen was all the more confused. He did not see at all. He did, however, feel a slight pang of regret – if Dorian was no longer able to concentrate on their games, who would he play chess with? Cullen didn’t know if he could bear to lose his distraction, not now that his mind was finally beginning to heal.

“Oh!” Cullen’s regret must have shown on his face, because Dorian immediately raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “There is nothing between the Inquisitor and me, Commander. You may rest assured about that.” The mage grinned again, giving him a look of frank understanding Cullen didn’t quite comprehend.

“What?”

“The Inquisitor. I am not referring to there being anything other than friendship between myself and her,” Dorian repeated with exaggerated slowness, as if speaking to a child. “You needn’t worry about that.”

“I wasn’t… why would I…” Cullen was truly bemused. “I didn’t think there was anything between the two of you, Dorian. I know you are close friends. Not that it would be any of my business if there were.” The thought hadn’t even entered Cullen’s mind; now that it did, however, he found himself grateful for Dorian’s clarification. “I was merely wondering where I might find a challenging opponent if you find yourself incapable for a while.”

“You are too much, Commander.” Dorian chuckled, shaking his head. “Forget I said anything, in that case. Suffice to say that I think you may find the Inquisitor a far more fruitful opponent in the near future.” The smile the Tevinter flashed Cullen was innocent enough to raise his suspicions. Cullen raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“The Inquisitor?”

“She’s been practicing chess with me for some time now, and she’s become quite proficient. Perhaps you should ask her for a game sometime.” Dorian’s suggestion was as innocent as his smile had been. Cullen got the distinct impression that this suggestion wasn’t quite as casual and unplanned as it had seemed.

“I… perhaps I will... if it seems like she has time.” Cullen stumbled over the sentence, suddenly very aware of the tips of his ears and the warmth rising to them. Would the Inquisitor even want to play with him? How could he even go about asking her? What if she declined? What would he say?

“Good man, Commander.” While Cullen had been formulating various Amalia-related scenarios in his head, Dorian had gotten up to leave. The mage now clapped Cullen on the shoulder as he passed, on his way out of the garden. “I assure you: she will make time. You needn’t worry about that.”


	19. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses. I dropped the ball. I got into law school, and suddenly there was no time for gaming, let alone writing about gaming. Things got a bit hectic for a while. It has always bothered me that I never finished this project, though, so I am determined to start it back up again. I've lost my beta (not that I blame her given that I was MIA for 2+ years...), so please forgive silly errors that I can't catch on my own. Hopefully someone who was disappointed when I stopped updating will find their way back to reading this - as fun as it is to write for myself, it's also really fun to write for all the people who enjoyed this story. And will hopefully continue to enjoy it. :)

The Champion of Kirkwall had clearly been a champion far too long.

“No, I’m not saying I’m open to other suggestions. I’m saying you need to be more open to my suggestions.” This was the third time in a short few moments that Hawke had made an insinuation that the Inquisition didn’t know what they were doing. “You need to give me what I need, and let me go find the Wardens. This is important to all of us. You can’t afford to disagree with me on this.”

    Cullen closed his eyes and took a deep breath to keep his tongue in check. They were in the fifth hour of brutal war table discussions, and he was getting tired. His head throbbed, his hands were shaking, and the Champion would not relent.

    Unfortunately, neither would their Inquisitor. One of the very first things about her that Cullen had noticed, and come to recognize as a pronounced part of her character, was that she was not one to take orders. Friendly advice, yes. Suggestions, sure! But orders? Never. And Hawke had marched into her council room and started barking out what she should be doing.

    “Really? And here I was thinking we would make plans _together_.” The Inquisitor regarded the Champion of Kirkwall coolly. If he hadn’t known her so well, Cullen would have thought she was perfectly calm, not in the least riled by the hours of difficult conversation behind them. He did know her, however. He saw how the corner of her lips twitched, and how she blinked slightly more often than usual. She was at her wit’s end and trying very hard not to show it.

    “We can make plans together, as long as we’re clear that the person at this table with the most knowledge of this current situation is me - and you all need to respect that in the planning process.” Hawke’s tone was smug. Cullen could almost feel the annoyance rolling off the Inquisitor, who was standing next to him.

The contrast between Hawke and the Inquisitor was staggering. Amalia’s quiet, cool exterior was the polar opposite of the Champion’s blustering, sarcastic arrogance. Amalia preferred to speak less, but give each sentence more thought and meaning. The Champion, on the other hand, seemed to think that verbosity was the key to a fruitful conversation. Cullen couldn’t say he particularly shared that sentiment. The two women facing off across the war table even looked like total opposites. Where Amalia was short and blonde, with golden hair and yellow eyes, the Champion of Kirkwall was nearly as tall as Cullen himself, with jet-black hair, cropped short against her skull. Her crystalline blue eyes flashed with intensity every time she spoke, and she gestured wildly to accentuate her every word. Where Amalia was feminine, full-lipped and somehow soft-featured despite her often severe expression, the Champion was all dramatic angles, from her sharp nose to her pointed jaw, and bursting with sinewy, muscular power. It was easy to tell which of the women fought with magic and which one with swords.

“Perhaps we should take a short break,” Josephine, ever the peacemaker, suggested quietly from the other side of the table. The advisors, Cullen included, had been quiet for quite some time. None of them felt like being in the middle of the showdown between Inquisitor and Champion, it would seem. The idea of a pause was a welcome one. Cullen clutched his hands together, twining his fingers and squeezing hard in what he hoped looked like a casual gesture. The trembling was getting worse now, not to mention the pounding in his head. He felt like someone had taken a hammer to his temples.

He saw Leliana’s eyes flicker to his hands for a moment from her vantage point in the corner of the room. The spymaster truly missed nothing. “That sounds like an excellent suggestion. I need to see to some letters. Shall we reconvene in half an hour?” Leliana chimed in, meeting Cullen’s gaze and holding it as if to tell him to get himself under control in the brief pause she was arranging for him.

Hawke nodded brusquely in reply, turned on her heel and marched out of the room.

Amalia immediately straightened up to leave as well. “I need to visit my quarters for a moment… gather some ammunition for when we reconvene,” she said, more to herself than the others. The Inquisitor followed the Champion out of the room, rolling her shoulders and stretching her neck from side to side as she went, shaking off the ordeal of the past few hours. The advisors were left amongst themselves.

“Perhaps you should take this moment to get some rest, Cullen,” Leliana said softly. Josephine looked him up and down, clearly trying to ascertain why Leliana would make such a suggestion. Her expression turned to a look of pity. Did he really look that horrible? Cullen nodded, not quite sure whether he was replying to Leliana or dismissing their concerns, and headed towards the nearest balcony. He needed some fresh air. He’d be fine if he could just get some fresh air.

The lyrium withdrawal symptoms had come back in earnest these past few days. It had started with just a few nightmares, some random aches and pains that were so fleeting he wasn’t sure he had ever felt them at all. And then the trembling and headaches had set in, and he was suddenly certain of the reason. The respite he had gleaned from the rediscovery of his beloved chess hobby had passed. Not that he was bitter about that - having any respite at all had been more than he had ever hoped for. Still, it was more difficult than he had anticipated to go back to a life of constant pain and exhaustion after having been freed of the condition for even a short while.

Reaching the balcony, he leaned on the balustrade and closed his eyes, breathing deep. The afternoon was cool and cloudy, and the fresh mountain air felt divine on his clammy skin. He hadn’t realized how hot he had been feeling in the war room. Perhaps he was running a fever again. The thought made him sigh, and he rubbed his face with his hands to try to wipe off the glistening sheen of sweat.

“That bad, huh?” A voice from behind him made Cullen start. The dwarf, Varric, was sitting on the balustrade in the corner of the balcony, looking at him with a lopsided grin on his face.

“Hawke is certainly… something. I don’t remember her having been quite this…” Cullen searched for a kind way to describe the Champion, knowing full well how close she and Varric were. “... tenacious back in Kirkwall.”

“She was always tenacious. It’s only recently that she’s become arrogant and rude as well.” Varric snorted with derision. Despite his tough words, there was affection in his voice.

Cullen wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he turned back towards the scenery, taking a few more deep breaths. The pounding in his head had receded a bit, and the trembling of his hands was more controllable now that he was clutching the sturdy stone of the balustrade.

“You can’t really blame her for the way she is now, you know,” Varric continued, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen between them.

“I know she had a rough time of it,” Cullen acquiesced.

“A _rough time of it_? The love of her life turned around and committed mass murder, and she was forced to slit his throat… and then lauded as a hero for doing it. Show me a person who doesn’t turn into an asshole after something like that, and I’ll show you a liar.”

“I’m glad to see someone still understands me.” This time both Varric and Cullen jumped at the wry voice that chimed into their conversation from behind the two men.

    “Of course I do, kiddo.” As Varric spoke, Hawke walked over and leaned next to Cullen on the balustrade, staring at the mountain range sprawling around them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be such a shit.” Varric’s voice softened as he continued.

    “Nothing wrong with speaking the truth.” Hawke shrugged her shoulders, seemingly unaffected by the nature of the conversation she had walked in on. “Though some would say that makes you an even bigger asshole than me.”

    Varric snorted in reply. “I’m pretty sure they’d be right.”

    Cullen had mostly tuned out of their conversation, concentrating on subduing the pounding pain in his head and his trembling hands instead. He was surprised when Hawke suddenly turned to face him.

    “Are you ill, Knight-Captain?”

    “Commander,” Cullen corrected immediately, though he knew what she was doing. She was reminding him of their shared past.

    “Ah, my mistake. So hard to keep track of everyone’s titles these days. So, are you? Ill, that is?”

    “Just a little tired.” Cullen knew he looked more than a little tired, but he was hoping not to discuss the issue at any great length. Hawke did not need to know the more intimate details of his personal battles.

    Thankfully, she seemed to have dropped the issue, and moved to one that was, in her mind, more pressing. “Still following around women who think they’re on a holy mission?” Hawke’s eyes zeroed in on his expressions, judging his reactions.

    She was, of course, referencing Cullen’s former Knight-Commander, Meredith, who had been driven to insanity by red lyrium. She had attempted to slaughter an entire circle of mages back in Kirkwall, before Cullen and Hawke had put a stop to it. Cullen had missed the warning signs. “It’s different this time.”

    Hawke was clearly closing in for the kill. This was what she had hoped to discuss when coming out here to speak with him. “How do you know?” The tone of her question was biting. Her voice, sharp as it was even when she was happy, struck like a whip.

    She really was a pain. His annoyance flaring, Cullen straightened up, looking down at Hawke with as much authority as he could muster in his present condition. “You’ll remember, I think, that I chose to side with you over my Knight-Commander back in Kirkwall.” He kept his voice low. “Perhaps you’ll give me some credit for doing the right thing, in the end. Do you think I would make the same mistake a second time around? Do you have any reason to doubt my judgment now?”

    Hawke grew quiet. The smirk she always seemed to wear slid off her face as she processed his words. “So the Inquisitor’s a good one?”

    “The very best.”

    Varric looked from Hawke to Cullen and back to Hawke again. “Curly’s right on this one, kiddo. Take it from me if you won’t take it from him. You wanted help finding the Wardens, and she’ll give it to you - but you need to let her do it her way. You can trust her.”

    “I can’t trust anyone.” Hawke’s voice was matter-of-fact, but the words rang with truth. It occurred to Cullen that Varric was right; Hawke was deeply scarred by the events in Kirkwall, just as he was.

    “You can trust her.” Cullen repeated Varric’s words, his voice betraying the depth of his conviction in them.

    Hawke stared at him silently for a long moment. Her eyes searched his, perhaps trying to see the strength of his belief in the Inquisitor. Cullen stared right back at her, despite being uncomfortable with the intensity of her gaze. He refused to be the one to look away.

    Cullen could have sworn he saw the moment of decision pass through the Champion’s mind. She turned away, her face regaining its usual, arrogant smirk. “Fair enough. I’ll be sure to tell the Inquisitor what a staunch champion she has in her commander. I’ll also tell her she can do this her way. Whatever help I have to give is yours. Hers. The Inquisition’s.” Hawke waved her hand towards a stunned Cullen, clearly indicating dismissal. Even though he had been on the balcony first, and it was his keep, Cullen took his leave. Let Varric make conversation with the Champion. Cullen had had quite enough of it for one day… though he couldn’t help but feel pleased at the result.

    Later, as Cullen was in his study, pretending to go over some maps of the area surrounding Skyhold when in actuality he was just trying to will the pain in his head to go away, he heard a knock at the door. “Come in.”

“So, I heard you fought a hard battle for me today.”

It was the Inquisitor. Cullen stood up from his desk a little too quickly considering his headache. He could barely stop himself from wincing as pain shot across his skull. “Inquisitor. I… spoke with Hawke. Please, do come in.” Cullen gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk.

The Inquisitor shook her head, hanging back by the door. She seemed almost at a loss for words - not behavior Cullen was used to seeing from her. “I just wanted to come say…” The Inquisitor paused for a moment, her captivating gaze holding his. Cullen felt like all of the air had gone out of the room. “... thank you for believing in me. It means more to me than you could possibly know. That’s really… that’s really all I wanted to say.” She spoke quietly, and then slipped back out of the door without giving him time to reply, leaving him dumbstruck by the fervor of her gratitude.

Cullen took a deep breath, gathering his wits before returning to his maps. It wasn’t until later that he noticed his headache was gone.


	20. Stronger

Their plan was a solid one, yet Cullen felt the same pit in his stomach that he always did before a battle. He was sending his men into danger - and some of them would most certainly die. It never did any good to dwell on these things beforehand, yet he could not stop himself from doing so. He was personally responsible for the wellbeing of each and every man under his command. He’d never felt the weight of that responsibility more so than tonight; the Inquisition’s forces had become the largest force he’d ever led. Over ten thousand lives depended on him.

They were advancing on Adamant Fortress. Cullen knew what awaited them inside. Hawke and the Inquisitor had, with the help of Hawke’s Warden contact Stroud, discovered that the Grey Wardens had joined forces with a Tevinter magister. The Wardens were terrified. They had all heard the Calling, the sign of another Blight. Even so, Cullen could not understand how the Wardens could bring themselves to ally with blood magic. In his mind, demons were no better than Darkspawn.

“Commander!” Cullen turned to see Cassandra approaching him from further down the line, weaving between marching soldiers as she went. “There was a raven from the Inquisitor. She would like to know whether you intend for our armies to make camp tonight. She’ll join us if we are, or go straight to Adamant if not.” 

Cullen had his answer ready. They had been marching through the desolate Western Approach for over a week now. It would be folly to advance straight to Adamant - his men were all but beaten to exhaustion by the blistering winds that had blown sand in their faces day and night throughout the journey. “We’ll make camp at the first possible location we come across. I’ve already looked at the maps - there’s a promising hilltop not a league from here.” Cullen pointed in the direction he’d been leading the men. His plan was to let their army rest and train for almost a day in this location, and then advance on Adamant as soon as darkness fell on the morrow. With any luck, the Wardens wouldn’t know they were coming. Attacking swiftly once they were in sight of the fortress would give them the full benefit of the element of surprise.

“I’ll have Leliana’s scouts send word to the Inquisitor.” The Seeker had already started on her way back down the column as she spoke, and soon she disappeared from view.

Cullen also turned around and continued his march, his highest-ranking officers following close behind him. The pit in his stomach had been replaced by a more pleasant sensation: the same tickling warmth he had come to expect whenever the Inquisitor was near. Just the idea of seeing her soon was enough to make him nervous. Worrying about the upcoming battle would not help the present situation, but neither would worrying about what to say and how to act around the Inquisitor. Despite knowing this, he could not seem to stop himself from doing either.

At least worrying about the Inquisitor was a much nicer way to spend some time.

It didn’t take the army long to reach the hill Cullen had seen on his maps. He found it as he had suspected: a set of craggy, jagged stones sticking out from a plain of dead grass and sand to form a large plateau. It was an excellent place to camp, with good visibility in almost all directions. Surrounding a small oasis in the center of the plateau, he saw the standing corpses of numerous dead trees, providing much-needed cover from the extreme elements of the Western Approach.

As Cullen’s men bustled about the campsite, setting everything up at his command, Leliana approached the Commander and pulled him aside. “I have those scouting reports you requested, Commander.”

“And?”

“The fortress is old and weathered, but strong.” Leliana passed him some drawings of the fortress, its gate, and what information could be gleaned about its layout from the outside. “‘Stroud was also able to provide us with this map of the inside of Adamant. I believe we can trust the information he gives us.” 

“Excellent,” Cullen murmured, eyeing the maps as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We’ll proceed as planned, then - send the bulk of our forces to assault the keep from the front with battering rams. They’ll break down the front gate. We’ll send the Inquisitor and her companions in through there, while we keep the main host of the Wardens busy. At the same time, we’ll have your scouts supported by some of my men mount ladders on the back walls of the keep and enter over the walls.”

“Hawke has requested to join the scouts entering through the back.”

That didn’t surprise Cullen at all. “She’s a solid fighter...”  _ And in the back she’d be out of the way should she decide to go rogue in the middle of the mission _ , Cullen added silently to himself. “Tell Hawke her request is acceptable.”

Leliana nodded and took her leave, giving Cullen a moment to himself. He was still in sight of the camp and the soldiers, of course, but it was the furthest he had been from the other members of the Inquisition since they had left Skyhold two weeks ago. He sighed in relief, taking off one of his gloves and rubbing his face with the bared hand. It had been a difficult two weeks. In such close scrutiny of his men, he was under even more pressure than usual to keep his lyrium withdrawal symptoms under control. To slip up here would be a catastrophe, both for his men and for himself. A commander who cannot control himself is no commander at all, and his men needed a solid commander to trust in the battles to come.

As a result, Cullen had barely slept for the entirety of the march. He was too scared of waking up a shivering, crying mess in front of his men. The nightmares that plagued him in Skyhold were all too eager to follow him here - and the exhaustion that had taken hold as a result had him approaching his breaking point. He was all too used to the headaches and other pains. They were not the worst of it. It was the fever he had come to dread the most. Some days, it felt as if his skin was on fire. Others, the cold sweat that sprung to the surface left him shivering and clammy despite the desert temperatures surrounding him. Today had been one of the cold days. His hands often trembled, and to his horror he sometimes even felt his knees shaking, threatening to give away underneath him.

He was very seriously starting to wonder if this was worth it; if he could be the Commander the Inquisition needed in his present state. If he made a mistake that cost someone their very life… Cullen didn’t think he could live with himself after something like that. Of all the awful things he had done in the past, this was the one thing he thought he wouldn’t be able to survive. The stakes were far too high for everyone around him - and they all trusted him to see them safe. 

He should be taking the lyrium. He should be taking it. 

Cullen steered himself away from this train of thought. He could feel the blood coursing in his veins, aching, straining to find the lyrium it no longer contained. He wasn’t sure how much of his desire for the substance was caused by his guilt and how much by the addiction he could not seem to shake. He sat down on a large boulder nearby, his back to camp. The men were busy setting up the campsite - no one would need him for a while. He could let his trembling legs rest, even if just for a moment.

It was then that he realized he wasn’t alone. A pair of ponderous, yellow eyes were on him. “It’s bad today, isn’t it?” The Inquisitor was leaning against a nearby tree. He had no idea how long she had been there, how much she had seen.

He nodded, his words taken away from him by her sudden appearance.

She moved nearer to him, carefully, as if asking permission, until finally she was sitting next to him on the rock. “I wish I could help.”

Cullen cleared his throat, trying to find his voice in order to reply. “You do.”

It was true. Her very presence made him feel stronger. As long as she was there with him, he felt like he could accomplish anything - even get over this. His aches ebbed, and it was almost as if he felt less tired than before. He could feel her warmth against his side where their bodies nearly touched. It eased the unnatural sense of cold coursing through his body, calmed his blood until it was no longer screaming for lyrium. Instead, he could feel another kind of ache - the ache to hold her in his arms, feel her body pressed against his. She drowned out all his senses.

She seemed to sense his need for her company - and his paradoxical simultaneous need for solitude. They sat for what seemed like a very long while in companionable, almost intimate silence. He could feel her relax beside him against the warm stone. Perhaps she had needed a moment of quiet just as much as he had.

“I should get back to the men,” Cullen finally said, his voice coming out a little hoarse.

“Of course.”

Neither of them moved. 

The unexpected peace they had found in one another finally shattered when one of Cullen’s men nervously approached them. “Commander Cullen? Inquisitor? They’re asking for you in the commander’s tent.” 

Cullen was the first to rise. “I’ll be right there, Jim. Thank you.” Jim hurried back the way he’d come, and Cullen reached out his hand to help the Inquisitor up. Together, they started towards the tent, still not speaking.

It was time to turn their moment of peace into actions of war.


	21. Adamant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It became long. I'm sorry. I tried. Writing battle sequences is too fun, though...

Cullen was among the first of the Inquisition to rise, his eyes watering and his entire body clammy from sweat. Morning training had been cancelled to give the men time to rest after the long march behind them. He expected many of them to sleep in; they had been getting almost as little sleep as the Commander himself in the past few weeks. Cullen rubbed his face, trying to dispel the nightmare that had woken him and wishing fervently that it had waited at least another hour or two before doing so. He sighed. There was nothing to be done about it now. It was time to begin the day.

It was no later than four in the morning. Despite the early hour, the air was already heating up, promising another sweltering day to follow the pattern set by the previous two weeks. The oasis in the middle of their camp would surely be swarming with men soon, as everyone was eager to wash off the dust of the journey - most of them had been too tired to do so the night before. Cullen thought he’d get a head start. 

Grabbing his towel and clothes, he headed to the oasis from his tent. There was a slight breeze in the air, which combined with his fevered skin to send a chill through his bare torso despite the warmth of the new day. He was happy to find the oasis cool, calm and - above all - completely empty.

It was only just beginning to get light as Cullen stepped into the water, not even bothering to remove his smallclothes. There was a golden glow on the horizon, highlighting the mountains to the east, marking where the Western Approach ended and where his home lay, waiting for him to return. He was momentarily surprised to find himself thinking of Skyhold as home. It had been a long time since any place had held that special meaning for him. He had lived and worked in the Kirkwall Circle, and before that in the Circle at Kinloch Hold… but it hadn’t been since the time he’d spent in templar training that he’d felt at home anywhere. He had a suspicion there was a particular reason why the cold, barren and mostly still decrepit halls of Skyhold had gained this elevated status in his estimations. Why couldn’t he spend a single waking moment without thinking about  _ her _ ? He pushed the thought out of his head.

The water swirled around him as he waded deeper, cradling his aching muscles. He sighed blissfully as it finally reached his chest. It was just cool enough to be pleasant, but just warm enough to keep him from trembling. He so very rarely felt comfortable these days. He relished the sensation briefly before returning to the task at hand: cleansing off the grime of the last few weeks of travel. Trudging through a desert with thousands of men at your back had not afforded him time to bathe.

He scrubbed his face, his hair, his neck, his shoulders, his stomach, his thighs. As he went, he briefly massaged the worst of his aches, thumbing the painful muscles with a sigh. He even took the time to run his dagger over his chin, cutting the overgrown stubble there to a more acceptable length. Finally, he removed his smallclothes, washing them thoroughly before ringing them out above the surface of the water.

Before leaving the oasis, he closed his eyes and cleared his mind. It was a ritual he had started on the eve of his very first battle. Cullen pushed all his thoughts out of his mind - the fever, the headaches, the cry he felt in his blood for lyrium, his worry, his confusing feelings for the Inquisitor, his fears, his hopes, his past, his future. It took all the discipline born of years of Templar training and every inch of his resolve, but he finally found the focus he was looking for. Today, he was nothing but a sword. Today, he was nothing but a commander. Today, he was exactly what those relying on him needed him to be. He repeated the mantra in his mind.

The sun was just peaking over the horizon as Cullen made his way back to his tent, clothed in a fresh white linen shirt and black pants, feeling clean in his body and soul. As he walked, men began to poke their heads out of their tents to his right and left. He returned their salutes with nods, stopping to share a few words with the men who wished the speak with him.

Many of them were nervous. He could almost smell the fear on his newest recruits, the ones who had never before seen battle. Cullen wished he could prepare the men for what was coming, but knew from experience that there was no way to do so. First blood was always a trial for any soldier. Instead, he offered them distractions from their anxiety. He talked of training regimes, gave tips on sword care and listened to the men talk of home. War had a funny way of putting things in perspective - and so he heard multiple descriptions of children back home, women to be wed, parents, brothers, sisters, friends, lovers. Descriptions of the people he would be letting down the most should he fail to do right by his men. 

The more seasoned soldiers who stopped him on his way were less verbose. Most of them wanted to break their fast with their commander, go over the plans for the attack one last time and clap him on the shoulder before heading off to train. These meetings left him feeling better. All his new recruits would be surrounded by good, seasoned men in the field - he had taken great pains to make sure of this. War came to these men like breathing; it was in their blood, the very essence of their being. Their home was on the battlefield. There was no finer company to be kept in times like these.

When Cullen finally reached his tent, it was almost midday. It had taken a lot of time, but these moments with his men before the battle were of the utmost importance to Cullen. He wanted to make sure they were going into battle as a willing, well-prepared unit that knew their commander cared for their well-being. If the price he had to pay to achieve that was a few missed swings at a training dummy, so be it.

He was quick to don his training armor and sword belt and head down to the makeshift training pits that had been erected last night. By then, all the men had gathered as instructed, and his lieutenants had begun drilling the first set of soldiers. Cullen walked among them for a while, correcting postures and grips and shouting out a few words of praise here and there. In the breaks between drills, he took a few turns on a training dummy himself. It was mostly a mental exercise to him - he wanted to make sure everything worked as it should, that there would be no surprises later tonight when his target was trying to hit him back. As his muscles warmed up and the knots in them loosened, he found himself in his element. He was ready.

The hours passed, company after company of men completing their drills and setting off to prepare themselves to advance on Adamant Fortress. The camp around Cullen dissolved as one after another his soldiers packed up the equipment they had in their charge. Finally, the last company cleared the training rings and hitched the catapults and battering rams to horses. They were the last to join the column that had formed across the diagonal of what used to be their campsite.

The Inquisition forces were ready to march.

Cullen took his place in the front of the column beside the Inquisitor, the Seeker, the spymaster and the Inquisitor’s closest companions. Dorian nodded to him from the other side of the Inquisitor, but even his characteristic smirking countenance had been silenced by nerves. The Inquisitor was silent, gazing at the sun that was beginning to set over the horizon with a look of fierce determination in her eyes. Cassandra looked around, clearly going through a last-minute checklist in her mind. The enchantress, Lady Vivienne, smoothed out the folds of her ruffled robes, her expression carefully indifferent but the taught muscles in her neck and shoulders betraying her. Cole, who had only recently begun travelling with the Inquisitor, was shifting his weight from side to side, his morose eyes shifting nervously from person to person. He muttered quietly to himself. The Qunari mercenary Iron Bull fiddled with the edge of his enormous battle axe. Warden Blackwall watched the Inquisitor intently, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set beneath his unruly beard. Only Leliana and Solas betrayed no hint of nerves. They stood, calmly and quietly, just waiting for the battle that they all knew was coming.

Hawke, Warden Stroud and Varric joined them then, and Cullen greeted them with a perfunctory nod before turning back to face the column of his soldiers. “Inquisition!” He called. “Forward!”

The clash of thousands of armored feet moving as one was almost deafening.

As he had planned, darkness swallowed them just as the walls of Adamant began to rise on the horizon. The torches of the Wardens patrolling the walls of the fortress shone in the dark, giving them a beacon towards which to move. His own army advanced in darkness - on his orders, no torches were to be lit until they were in formation around the fortress. That time was fast approaching. He saw his ranged battalions break off from the army, heading towards the hill they had been instructed to hold. The companies in the middle of the column stopped soon as well, spreading out on the field overlooking the fortress in a formation born of hundreds of hours of rigorous drilling. The advisors, the Inquisitor and her companions and the commander himself stopped here as well. It was the best vantagepoint over the field of battle. Only four companies and a band of stragglers still advanced - the two charged with the care of the battering rams and the two charged with the handling of the catapults, as well as the mixed party of Cullen’s best fighters, Leliana’s scouts, Warden Stroud and Hawke. The small rogue band split off from the companies, scurrying towards the other side of the fortress as quickly as they could over such difficult terrain in total darkness.

It was then that the army was spotted. A clamor rose up on the walls of the fortress, followed shortly by the resounding call of war horns. The Inquisition’s war horns answered in return. It was the sign the forward companies were waiting for - they picked up the pace, charging forward with the siege equipment toward the sturdy wooden gates of the fortress. The battering rams were in place just as the Wardens on the walls picked up their bows to rain death down upon those who would breach their stronghold. Torches were lit all along the rows and rows of men surrounding Cullen, revealing the true strength of their numbers to the defenders.

The battering rams were making short work of the gates, the catapults distracting the archers on the walls attempting to slow their progress. Cullen could see the gates were about to fold. He turned around, addressing his armies. “Inquisition!” Hundreds of faces turned to him as he brandished his sword, holding it in the air. “Corypheus threatens everything we hold dear. Our families, our homes, our freedom, our peace, our very lives. We will deal a blow to him tonight. Take away from him that which he has gained here. Fight for the Inquisition, fight for me, fight for your families and fight for yourselves!” A roar of approval rose up around him as he turned around, swinging his sword towards the fortress just as the heavy wooden gates gave way. “Charge!”

All around him, men flooded towards the breach in the fortress’s defenses. He charged with his men, the Inquisitor and her company close behind him. Leliana broke off to join the archers on the overlooking hillside. They reached the courtyard just behind the gates with no resistance - his men had paved the way for them before spilling over the walls to take out the Warden archers. The sounds of battle raged around them, blood pooled on the cobblestones at their feet and the sickly smell of death surrounded them.

On the battlements above them, Cullen spotted a lavishly robed man and an older woman clad in Warden armor. They could be none other than the Tevinter magister behind all this and Warden-Commander Clarel. They were staring at the battle raging below, stone-faced. “Inquisitor!” Cullen pointed at the pair as he called out to the Inquisitor. Cullen met her gaze, and a look passed between them - short, but seeming to last a lifetime. Her eyes burned fiercely, stilling the chaos around him until there was nothing in the world but the two of them. His breath caught in his throat, his pulse beat in his ears. The corner of her mouth turned up, and the fire in her eyes softened as she looked at him… and the the moment was over and she was off, chasing after the man and woman that had now disappeared from sight with her companions at her heels. Cullen turned his attention back to the battle raging around him, willing himself to tear his gaze from the Inquisitor, telling himself he would see her again soon.

He climbed the stairs to the walls of the keep, joining the men there in the assault. He lost track of time and himself as he and his men cleared section after section of the fortress, advancing towards where he knew the inner courtyard to be. It was the only place in the fortress large enough to house any large amount of opposition - it was where he knew the Wardens must make their final stand.

Cullen fell into the familiar routine of battle easily: choose an enemy, engage, incapacitate or slay, repeat. All around him, his men both fell on the sword and felled their enemies. He couldn’t stop to think of those he couldn’t help - all in all, the flow of the battle was turning in their favor. They reached the archway to the inner courtyard of the keep with relatively few losses. It was there that the ease of their advance stopped.

They walked into the courtyard, which was ablaze with green light. The air seemed to shiver and quake around them. Their ears were filled with echoing screams - the sounds of the Fade. A large rift stood in the center of the courtyard, a black and green chasm in the fabric of reality, surrounded by tens of Wardens.

The Inquisitor and her companions were already there, Hawke and Warden Stroud beside them. On the balcony overlooking the courtyard, Warden-Commander Clarel, the Tevinter mage and a young elven girl stood. The girl was shivering, but stood determined

“Don’t do it, Clarel!” The Inquisitor shouted up at the older woman. Cullen had rarely heard her sound so panicked. “If you complete this ritual, you’re doing exactly what Erimond wants! You’re playing right into his hands!”

Warden Stroud picked up the call. “She’s speaking the truth, Clarel. You know me. We trust each other. I only want what’s best for the order! Listen to her!”

“We’re saving people from the Blight. You may not see that as important, but I do. And so do all these brave Wardens, gathered here today to do their duty, even if you will not. Do not stand in the way of this, wayward Warden!” Erimond, the Tevinter Magister, shouted back at Stroud, his voice mocking.

“This is what’s best for the order.” Clarel’s clear voice rang across the courtyard. She stepped up behind the young elven woman, whispered something in her ear, and drew a blade across her neck.

“No!” The Inquisitor shouted. “Jana!”

The light in the young elven woman’s eyes went out, and she slumped to the ground at Clarel’s feet in a pool of her own blood. At the exact moment she fell, the rift in the courtyard split open, revealing a window to the world beyond this one. In it, Cullen could see the a creature. A horrible monster with a thousand eyes. The Wardens surrounding the rift were engulfed by tendrils of green light as one after another they were consumed by the rift. The light cleared, the air shimmered, and in the place of the Wardens stood demons.

“Clarel! You’re binding our mages to Corypheus!” Stroud cried out, but the understanding that dawned in Clarel’s eyes at his words came too late. The ritual was complete.

“My master thought you might show up here today, Inquisitor,” Erimond taunted Amalia, “and he sent me this to welcome you!”

A deep roar filled the air and echoed across the courtyard. A black dragon came bearing down on the Inquisition, its enormous wings lifting up gusts of sand that spiralled into small tornadoes around them. It opened its maw and breathed a ball of purple electricity that spiralled toward them. His men dove out of the way and took cover. In the haze lifted up by the creature’s wings, Cullen could see the Warden-Commander look up at the dragon in terror. The full weight of the mistake she had made crashed down on her as the dragon landed on the roof of the tower above them. She set her jaw, lifted her staff, and sent a bolt of lightning careening towards Erimond from behind. The magister collapsed on the ground, taken unawares by the betrayal. “You… you have destroyed the Wardens!” The Warden-Commander advanced on the prone magister.

“Clarel, please…” Cullen could just barely hear Erimond’s cries over the growling of the demons, the sounds of the Fade rift and low rumble of the dragon. Before Clarel could make another move, Erimond was on his feet, scampering away from the balcony and retreating deeper into the fortress. The dragon took off after the magister, the beats of its wings leaving behind another sandstorm in its wake.

“Kill the demons!” Clarel shouted at the Inquisition forces before she, too, ran after the magister.

“Inquisition, prepare for battle!” Cullen raised his sword, charging toward the advancing demon horde. The soldiers around him picked up their arms - all except Amalia, who was frozen in place, staring after Clarel, Erimond and the dragon. “Amalia, don’t -” Cullen had just enough time to call out before he saw the flash of decision in her eyes.

“Dorian, Cole, Cassandra, Hawke, Stroud - to me!” The Inquisitor called her companions. They were off after the dragon, magister and Warden-Commander. Cullen swore under his breath, but turned back to his men. There was nothing he could do to help the Inquisitor now.

The battle engulfed him yet again. Fighting demons was nothing like fighting men - they felt no pain or fear. They were single-mindedly ravenous for blood. The pride demon, the largest and most terrifying of the monsters now facing them, swung its claws at Cullen. He lept away, slicing into the demon’s wrist. It screamed in defiance and came at him again. This time, Cullen dove into the beast, ramming his blade into the creature’s stomach. It roared, falling backwards, grabbing at Cullen with its talons and taking him down with it. For a moment, he felt the crushing force of the creature’s arms wrapped around his ribs and wheezed, struggling for air. He heard something whiz past his ear, and the demon’s arms went limp. Cullen leapt up to see Varric standing to his side, holding his crossbow Bianca over his shoulder. A bolt from that same crossbow was embedded in the pride demon’s skull. Cullen nodded his thanks to the dwarf before turning to face the scene of the battle yet again.

His men had taken care of the smaller demons while he and Varric had seen to the largest. For a moment, everything was still. Then, the rift shook, the screaming noise emitting from it getting louder, almost deafening him. As the noise reached its peak, a new demon stepped through the rift. His men encircled it and brought the monster to the ground.

“Keep everything that comes out of that rift in control,” Cullen commanded his remaining forces. He was pleased to see only a few wounded and even less killed.

“Commander!” Jim, a private who had been standing near him, grabbed him by the arm and pointed upwards toward the battlements. “Look!”

Cullen looked, and his heart plunged into his stomach. Far away, on the other side of the fortress, the dragon had landed on the battlements. In front of it were eight shadowy figures, highlighted against the dark horizon by a green glow emitted from the hand of one of them. The Inquisitor. As he watched, one of the figures lunged forward at the dragon, only to be snapped up in its giant teeth and thrown to the ground at its feet. The same lightning bolt spell he had seen in use earlier this very same evening spun at the dragon’s face from the direction of the crumpled figure. Clarel. The dragon reared on its hind legs, letting out a roar that echoed throughout the Western Approach, and slammed back down to the ground, its legs crumpling under it. The two figures nearest to it was crushed under the enormous black mass.

There was an ominous cracking sound. The battlements, already old and weathered, could not withstand the full weight of the dragon. The stone began to give way, slowly at first, but then faster and faster, falling into the ravine below with a sound like thunder. The six figures still standing turned and started running, desperate to escape being swallowed by advancing chasm. One of the figures tripped, the edge of the chasm almost upon it, and he could see the one with the glowing hand stop and reach out toward it. The rest of the figures stopped, turning around to help.

“No!” Despite himself, Cullen shouted the word out loud - but to no avail. The battlements crumbled out from under the figures. The one with the glowing hand fell, along with the one it had been trying to save and those that had tried to help, into the ravine.

Again, a tear resounded throughout the keep, followed by the high keening of a Fade rift. It opened below the falling figures, catching them all before blinking out of sight. The battlements finally gave way completely with a resounding crash.

Silence fell in the courtyard.

For several moments, no one spoke. The stunned silence was interrupted by a piercing scream from the Fade rift they were centered around, and the appearance of another demon. Again, Cullen’s men took it down efficiently.

“I believe they are in the Fade.” The enchantress, Vivienne, had walked up behind Cullen.

“What can we do now that they are? Can we go in after them?”

“We can wait, Commander. Both Amalia and Dorian are accomplished mages - I’m sure it will be a familiar place for them,” Solas answered his question from across the courtyard. “This rift cannot be entered - and none of us wield the power to conjure one that can. They’ll know they can exit through another rift. I’m sure they’ll set out to find this one from the other side.”

“If they can make it through the Fade to find it, that is,” Vivienne remarked, her voice curiously callous.

“They can. Hawke’s with them. There’s no kind of weird shit she can’t deal with,” Varric retorted, giving the enchantress a glare.

“Commander.” One of Cullen’s lieutenants approached them, having just entered the courtyard followed by his company. They had what looked like the remainder of the Warden force in tow. “The enemy is subdued. They put down their arms when the dragon appeared.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Harvey.” Cullen turned to face the Wardens. “The Inquisitor will decide what to do with you. Until then, you will remain here under our watch.” Harvey nodded in acknowledgement and ushered the Wardens off to the corner of the courtyard, placing his men around them to keep watch. 

The Fade rift screamed again, and Cullen’s men leapt toward it to face the demon they knew would soon appear. Cullen’s stomach knotted as he glanced at the rift. Somewhere in there, the Inquisitor was fighting for her life.

The resolve that had gotten him through the day had crumbled as he watched the Inquisitor fall into the Fade. He was exhausted, every part of him ached, and his hands threatened to start trembling again… but the worst of it was the empty feeling in his chest. Not knowing whether he would ever see her again. And there was nothing they could do but wait.

Minutes turned to hours. Leliana arrived with the ranged companies, and men from all over the fortress finished searching for the wounded and joined them in the courtyard. In the end, Cullen dispatched some men to set up camp on the outskirts of the fortress, starting with a sickbay to house the wounded. Others he sent to collect the dead, both those of the Inquisition and those of the Wardens. Misled though they were, the Wardens were an honorable order. They deserved respect in death. The Warden bodies were placed on pyres outside their camp, and their own dead wrapped in linens to be transported home to their families.

The smell of the burning dead mixed with that of blood, sweat and other bodily fluids and filled the sweltering night air of the courtyard. This was the smell of victory, Cullen thought bitterly to himself. It was also the smell of defeat. Cullen didn’t know yet whether tonight had been a victory or a loss for him. He glanced at the rift again. It would be the greatest loss of all if she did not return.

His lieutenants organized guard shifts both around the rift and around the camp on his orders, and then finally they were given leave to retire to the camp with any men not on shift. One by one they left the courtyard, until finally Cullen, the Inquisitor’s closest friends, the rift guards and the Wardens and their minders were the only ones left. Everything had been seen to. 

Cullen cast his eyes over those still here with him, waiting for something they all knew might never come. Varric looked almost as worried as he did. He was sitting in the very corner of the courtyard, polishing Bianca. His mouth was set in a tight line and his jaw clenched. He didn’t move his eyes from the rift. He was waiting for Hawke, just as Cullen was waiting for the Inquisitor. Vivienne was sitting near the Wardens, watching them in silence as one by one they fell asleep on the hard ground. The Iron Bull was cleaning his battle axe on a nearby rock. Cullen looked around for Blackwall, surprised to not find him near his brethren. He finally found him sitting on the other side of the courtyard, his face glowing green as he, too, stared into the rift. Solas was nowhere to be seen.

Cullen let his mind wander. Unsurprisingly, there was only direction it wandered in. It occurred to him then he had never had a chance to ask Amalia for that game of chess. He had missed out on spending that time with her, perhaps forever. The desperation the thought filled him with was enough to overpower him in his fragile state, and he sat down a nearby rock to steady himself.

The rift screamed again, and the men on guard duty brought their swords up to slay the demon that would soon fall from it. This time, however, they heard the voice of a woman echo through the rupture. Distorted as it was, there was no mistaking who it belonged to. The Inquisitor. “Hawke! Hawke, don’t do this!”

Varric was on his feet at once, rushing toward the rift. Cullen found himself right behind the dwarf, despite knowing there was nothing they could do.

“Amalia, we have to go now!” The voice echoing through the rift this time was deeper, male. Dorian. The rift screamed again, the air around it pulsing as the rupture widened.

Cole was the first to fall out, hitting the ground softly. On top of him fell Cassandra in a clatter of armor and swords, and finally the Warden, Stroud. The trio looked around, eyes wide, and bustled to get up, out of the way of the final members of their party.

“Amalia! NOW!” Dorian’s voice broke through the rift again, overpowering the keening. Cullen could feel the pulse pounding in his ears, the nerves and worry gripping his insides like a vise. She had to come through. She just had to. Dorian would make her. Beside him, Varric’s mouth was a hard line, his eyes intent on the rift.

The next two people to fall out of the rift fell together. Dorian came first, both his arms stretched out behind him as he dragged the Inquisitor out of the Fade with him. The rift screamed once more, widening, and through it they could all see the enormous monster with a thousand eyes approaching.

Suddenly, Solas was there beside them, taking the Inquisitor’s marked hand and pointing it at the rift. The screaming stuttered, stopped, and with a final whine the rift closed up, its green light pooling in the palm of Amalia’s hand and then blinking out of existence.

Cullen finally found his feet and lunged forward. He picked the Inquisitor off the ground and encircled her in his arms, squeezing her tight. He breathed in the scent of her hair, crushed her against his chest and thanked the Maker she was here with him. She was here. With him. Right. With that, he realized what he was doing and dropped her immediately. His face, already flushed from the excitement of her reappearance, turned even more pink.

He didn’t appear to have insulted her too badly with his exuberance. The Inquisitor smiled at him, then turned toward Varric - who was no longer there. It was only then that it occurred to Cullen that Hawke had not come through the rift with them. He turned to see the dwarf’s back, retreating from view beyond the courtyard’s entry arch.

“You did everything you could, Amalia.” Dorian had gotten himself to his feet of his own accord and stood behind them now.

“It wasn’t enough,” the Inquisitor said simply before turning to Cullen once more. “What’s our situation, Commander? What happened?”

Cullen managed to gather his wits long enough to answer. “We won the battle with minimal casualties. The remaining Wardens have surrendered to us, and are being held by our men.” He nodded his head towards the group. “They are awaiting your judgment. Everything is taken care of otherwise.”

Stroud was by their side, eyeing the men and women that were all that was left of the Wardens. “There is no one of any rank here,” he stated, sounding almost relieved. He turned to the Inquisitor. “That puts me in charge. Inquisitor, I beg your leave to pledge what remains of our force to your cause. Let us help you right the wrong our order took part in putting in motion.”

Amalia looked at the older man thoughtfully, not seeming entirely taken aback by the offer. “Alright, Stroud. But your mages are to be kept under close watch, and anyone who is found to be doing anything they shouldn’t be will be exiled from these lands. For good.”

“Inquisitor, are you sure-”, Solas started, but he was interrupted by Amalia putting up a hand.

“They need a chance to atone for their mistakes, Solas.”

As loathe as he was to let blood mages into the Inquisition, Cullen had to admit the Inquisitor had a point - and he had promised to leave the judgment of the Wardens to her. The Wardens were an honorable, ancient order. He did not want to see them disbanded or exiled, either. The Inquisitor caught his eye. A silent message passed between them; she was telling Cullen to keep an eye out. Cullen nodded in reply. He would make sure the Wardens were watched vigilantly, at least until they proved their loyalty.

“I need to get to camp,” Dorian finally said, breaking the tension of the moment. “My hair is positively filthy.”

Amalia chuckled quietly at her friend and turned towards the gates of the fortress herself. “It  _ has _ been a long night. We should get some rest. We’ll start the journey back home as soon as we can.”

Home. That reminded Cullen of something. “Inquisitor? Once we get back to Skyhold, may I trouble you for a game of chess?” He blurted the words out without thinking, and immediately felt the color rise to his cheeks.

Amalia looked surprised and stared at him for a moment that seemed like an eternity to him. Then she laughed. “Of course, Cullen.” The sound of his name on her lips almost made his heart stop.

They walked to the camp in a silence broken only by Dorian’s occasional mutterings about the state of his robes, hair and moustache. The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon.


	22. Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did the thing. I know you wanted it. It's just not exactly the way you'd hoped. I wish I had a beta. If anyone finds themselves interested in filling the post, send me a friend request on Origin (username troyatistic).

The Inquisitor was late, which was very unusual for her.

Cullen tapped his fingers on the war table impatiently. Leliana and Josephine were still finishing up their reports for today’s council meeting. He had finished his own late last night, and so was left with nothing to do while they waited.

They had been quiet for a while, the only sounds in the room the scratching of the other advisors’ quills on paper and his fingers drumming the edge of the table. “So, Commander...” Josephine looked up unexpectedly from her papers, eyeing him with sly smile. “Have you had a chance to do battle with your new chess partner yet?”

Cullen’s face flushed. Across the room, the expression on Leliana’s face was all too innocent, her concentration on her papers so deep it was bound to be feigned. Cullen knew his fellow advisors loved to gossip far more than was good for them. They had clearly been talking about the events following the battle for Adamant Fortress - more specifically, his reaction to the return of the Inquisitor.

“No, I have not yet had that pleasure,” Cullen replied stiffly, not meeting Josephine’s gaze.

“Oh, how terrible it must have been, waiting for the Inquisitor, not knowing whether or not she would survive the Fade!” Josephine sighed dramatically. She was clearly not about to let the matter drop.

“Oh yes, we were all quite overwhelmed with emotion when she finally returned to us,” Leliana chimed in, matching the all-too-casual tone of Josephine’s voice.

As if Cullen didn’t know what they were referencing. He shot a look at Leliana, who hadn’t even lifted her eyes from her papers. A small smile played on the spymaster’s lips.

“Yes, I can very well imagine!” Josephine lost her composure and giggled.

Cullen glowered at the two women. He could feel his ears heating up. “You are not amusing.”

“I cannot imagine what you mean, Commander,” Josephine replied, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Nor can I, Commander.” Leliana’s practice as a spymaster gave her statement a more believable air that that of her co-conspirator’s, but Cullen saw through it regardless. “We are merely talking of a great battle our forces recently won.”

“Stop it,” Cullen muttered.

“What’s going on here?” Unbeknownst to them, the Inquisitor had entered the room.

“Inquisitor!” Cullen jumped up from his chair. If it had been possible, his face would have reddened even more. “We were just -”

“- eagerly awaiting your presence,” Leliana interrupted.

“Some of us quite a bit more than others,” Josephine finished her thought.

The Inquisitor looked around the room, eyeing each of them, her expression unreadable. Cullen was unsure how much she had heard. He could only just barely resist the impulse to cover his face with his hands. Oh, Maker, but this was awful.

The awkward silence was finally broken by the Inquisitor after a few torturous moments. “I see. Well, then we shall just have to get started. I apologize for making you wait.”

Cullen breathed a sigh of relief. The Inquisitor was going straight down to business, thank the Maker.

“We have an important matter to discuss. Leliana and I have received some disturbing reports regarding the red templars,” the Inquisitor continued. “A man by the name of Samson is apparently leading them.”

That brought Cullen back to his senses. “Samson?”

“Yes. Leliana tells me he used to be a templar.”

“Yes, I know him - knew him, I mean. We served together at the Kirkwall Circle before he was expelled from the Order. I know him to be a decent man, albeit somewhat overly emotional in the line of duty. He’s the one responsible for turning templars into… those things? I know he had a particularly bad addiction to lyrium, but this… How could he do this?” Cullen’s mind still reeled at the thought of the grotesque monsters they had met many times on the battlefield. A templar could sense another templar, feel the lyrium sing in their blood and call out to his own. Though he was a templar no more, Cullen still retained this ability. The red templars he had faced had felt… different. The song in their blood had become a scream, louder and more powerful than that of any other templar he had come across before. Cullen’s skin prickled at the memory.

“My spies have made progress with tracking their caravans,” Leliana supplied. “We believe the main source of their red lyrium is a quarry near the town of Sahrnia in the Dales.”

“We must stop them from utilizing it. Whatever we can do to weaken Samson must be done. We cannot allow more templars to fall into his hands. I can send men to capture the quarry.”

“We cannot send armed forces into Orlais!” Josephine looked at him as if he were out of his mind. “We are not well enough acquainted with the Empress. I do not believe she would trust us enough to give us permission, and to send men without her permission is out of the question.”

“Very well. I shall go.” The Inquisitor’s tone left no room for alternate suggestions, though Cullen would have very much loved to supply one, and the matter was settled. The rest of the council meeting passed in a blur; Cullen found himself pondering the past, wondering how the man he had known as Samson could have become the monster he must now be. It was hard to reconcile the image of a man who had been expelled from the Templar Order for smuggling love letters between a mage and his sweetheart with that of a madman working to corrupt his former brethren. Had Cullen truly been that deceived in Samson’s character? Even worse - had he made an enormous mistake when helping Samson get reinstated in the Templar Order? Had his actions led templars into Samson’s grasp, and by extension Corypheus’s?

“Commander?” The voice of the Inquisitor brought him back to the present. “Is there anything you would like to add before we end this council meeting?”

“No, Inquisitor. I think we have discussed all we need to.”

“Very well. We shall reconvene when I return from the Dales. In the meantime, keep me informed by raven should anything happen.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

The advisors gathered their things and one by one left the war room, Leliana first, then Josephine. The Inquisitor put her hand on Cullen’s arm to stop him just as he was about to follow suit.

“Commander, I believe you owe me a game of chess.” There was a playful glint in the Inquisitor’s eye as she looked at him. “Unless, of course, you’ve come to second thoughts about challenging me.”

Cullen chuckled in spite of himself. “Do you have some time?”

“Of course.” Amalia smiled at him, setting his heart beating at a more frantic pace. They headed towards the chess set in the courtyard side by side, not speaking. Cullen wracked his mind for something to say, but the silence did not seem to bother the Inquisitor.

Cullen pulled back one of the chairs, helping the Inquisitor to her seat before taking his own across from her. He tried to ignore the jumble of nerves in the pit of his stomach and the cold sweat breaking out all over his body. He cleared his throat. “So… will you start?” His voice came out almost a croak, and it was all he could do to keep himself from wincing in embarrassment. No wonder Leliana and Josephine were teasing him. He was so obvious. He could feel the tips of his ears heating up at the memory of the banter before the council meeting. How much had the Inquisitor heard?

While his mind was racing, the Inquisitor had moved her first chess piece, commencing their battle for mastery of the chess board. The game provided a welcome distraction from his unruly thoughts, and for a while he was able to concentrate on something other than the woman sitting across from him. They chatted amiably about the weather, the reconstruction of Skyhold, Dorian’s choice of wardrobe and a multitude of other subjects. Cullen found himself relaxing, responding in kind to the Inquisitor’s quick smiles and easy laughs. She was enjoyable company, and her good mood was infectious.

Halfway through the game, however, her face turned more serious. “There was something I wished to speak to you about, actually.”

Cullen’s stomach once again tied itself in knots. “Anything, Inquisitor.” He was relieved to find his voice didn’t shake.

“I’ve been doing further research on felandaris.”

It had been a while since Cullen had been informed of the possibility of help for his symptoms. Truth be told, he had assumed Dorian and the Inquisitor had forgotten about the whole thing, and hadn’t wanted to press the issue and bring attention to his worsening symptoms. “Ah. I’d quite forgotten about it.”

“Had you, now?” He could tell by the way she looked at him that she could see right through his white lie. “In any case, Dorian and I have been trying to track some down for weeks… and we’ve finally found a place where it is known to grow. It is the only one that any of the herbalists in Thedas seem to know of.”

Cullen’s interest was piqued. “Where is this place?”

Amalia sighed, her mouth twisting into a frown. “In the Dales… in an abandoned fortress called Suledin Keep. I’ve had the area scouted. The fortress has been taken over by an ancient demon and is being patrolled by giants infused with red lyrium. Who knows what is going on in there. I wanted to go in, but Cassandra has forbidden it. She has deemed it too dangerous, and no one from the Inquisition is to go near it. I’m so sorry, Cullen.” The regret in her voice was enough to break his heart. She had clearly gone to great lengths to try to procure this herb for him. His heart thumped in his chest, and he had to remind himself that it was no more than she would have done for any member of the Inquisition. That was who she was. “I am looking into other options, but I don’t want you to have false hope.”

“The Seeker made the right call, Inquisitor. We cannot afford to lose you. The choice between my comfort and your safety is not a difficult one.” Despite his words, Cullen could not help but feel disappointed. The possibility of the felandaris extract had provided him with a small beacon of hope in his darkest moments, the moments his withdrawal symptoms were almost too much to bear. At the same time, the thought of sending the Inquisitor into such a place just for him was even more unbearable. He was glad that Cassandra had possessed the common sense to put a stop to the idea.

Again, it was like the Inquisitor saw right through him, addressing his unspoken thoughts. “I wouldn’t listen to Cassandra, but after her order I have been unable to find anyone to go into the keep with me. Even Dorian refuses. He says it’s for my own good.”

“As rare as it is that Dorian and I share an opinion, Inquisitor, I believe this is one of those moments. I would absolutely not wish for you to put yourself in danger on my account.”

“Be that as it may, he should still listen to me over the Seeker. I am the Inquisitor, after all,” Amalia grumbled, only half joking.

Cullen chuckled, and, with that, the serious conversation was over. Both players returned their attention to the board. Not long after, it occurred to Cullen that the Inquisitor was not quite as skilled a player as Dorian had led him to believe. She, too, clearly had too much faith in her own skills. There was a cocky smile on her lips as she made wrong move after wrong move, playing right into his hands and spelling out doom for her own king. Besting the Inquisitor at something somehow made her more human to him - and all the more attractive.

Cullen knew that if he moved his rook now, she would not be able to stop him, and the game would be over in three turns or less. He could also move his queen, taking her knight and ending the game in five turns or less. Both scenarios would result in a certain win for him. However… if he allowed her to take his pawn, she could still emerge victorious. The memory of her disappointment for not being able to get him the felandaris burned in his mind. He looked at her, her unwavering cocky smile and good mood, and could not bring himself to give her more disappointment. He moved his pawn.

Amalia glanced at him then, giving away that she had noticed the supposed mistake he had made. Her eyes twinkling, she moved her queen to take his pawn. Two turns later, the game was over. “Checkmate, Commander.”

“Very well played, Inquisitor. That was an enjoyable game.”

“For me as well. Perhaps…” The Inquisitor hesitated, a flush rising to her cheeks, so faint he wasn’t sure if it was truly there at all except in his imagination. “... Perhaps we should spend more time together.”

Her words had set his heart fluttering. “I… I would like that.”

“It’s settled, then. You’ll have to exact revenge for this loss sometime.” All at once, she was back to her usual self, her voice once again certain and the color in her cheeks normalizing.

“I’ll be sure to.”

They both rose from their chairs, nearly colliding as they stepped to the same side of the table simultaneously. “Excuse me,” the Inquisitor muttered, looking up at him as she caught his arm to steady herself. And yet, she didn’t move away.

Cullen found his breath taken away by her beauty. The curve of her impossibly soft, full lips drew his gaze. The urge to lean down, close that final small gap between them, to press his lips to hers was almost too strong to resist. Electricity passed between them, and to his astonishment she stepped even closer to him. Carefully, hesitantly, he placed his hand on her waist. She was so close, he could count the freckles scattered over the bridge of her nose. So close, he could feel her warmth against his body. So close, he could feel her breath on his lips. Their eyes met. Her gaze was molten amber, drawing him in, closer and closer. He leaned down, bringing his other hand to her waist, pulling her flush against him as her hand reached up to grasp his neck...

“Commander, Inquisitor! I have an urgent message from Sister Leliana!”

Jim. Of course it was Jim.

Cullen turned on his heel, facing the private who had snuck up on them. “What?!” In his disappointment, his voice came out much gruffer than he intended.

Jim looked taken aback by the harsh look he received from his commander. “Sister Leliana, sir. She needs to see you at once, sir. S-she has asked f-for you to hurry to the w-war room,” he stammered.

“Of course, private. Thank you.” The Inquisitor apparently remembered her manners, even if Cullen did not. Her voice betrayed no hint of what had almost just passed between them.

Jim saluted and hurried off, and Cullen turned to face the Inquisitor yet again. She had taken a step back.

“I suppose... we should see what Leliana wants.” Cullen’s statement was half a question.

Amalia looked at him, searching his expression for something that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. “So we should,” she finally said, her tone cool, betraying not a hint of emotion. She turned toward the war room, not waiting for him.

Cullen took his time, arranging the chess pieces into their box before following. He needed a moment alone to catch his breath, steady his heartbeat and clear his head before facing her again. He stood there, alone, until there was only one remaining thought that he could not shake: had she wanted him to kiss her?


	23. Demon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still on the hunt for a beta! Typos are getting unbearable. Sigh. If you're interested, I'm troyatistic on Origin/Steam/Skype, effelants on tumblr and Troyatz#2295 on BNet. Message me on anything that feels comfortable for you. 
> 
> Thank you to anyone and everyone who leaves kudos and even more so to those who leave comments. I spend so much time on this, it's so wonderful to know someone is out there enjoying what I'm doing. <3

They had found him. Samson. He was hiding away at a remote shrine in Orlais like the coward he was. Cullen’s upper lip curled at the thought of the other man. Cullen himself had shirked the vows of the Templar Order, but even that betrayal paled in the face of Samson’s actions. To grow red lyrium from people, to offer templars false hope of freedom then trick them into ingesting the vile substance, to abuse their trust and bind them to Corypheus… He had to be stopped.

The Inquisitor and the other advisors were just arranging the details of the Inquisitor’s mission to capture Samson. “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow,” the Inquisitor was just saying. “I’ll take some people with me, but nothing that could be misconstrued as an army in the eyes of the Orlesians. Dorian, Varric, Cole, Vivienne, Blackwall. I’m sure we’ll be able to handle it.”

“And what of Cassandra?”

“She has some matters she needs to attend to in Val Royeaux. We cannot wait for her to return before we go. It’s too important that we get to Samson before he hears we’re coming for him.”

“I’ll be coming as well.” As Cullen spoke, all three of the other members of the war council looked at him in surprise.

“You’ll be taking the field?” Josephine asked in clarification.

“I cannot ignore that some of the templars that have fallen under his influence may have done so because of my actions. Besides, this is a templar matter.”

“You are no longer a templar, Commander,” Leliana reminded him softly.

“I am aware.” Cullen’s voice came out sharper than he meant, and he leaned back in his chair to soften the effect of his tone. “I still feel a personal responsibility for the situation. I must go.”

“Are you well enough to make such a journey?” Josephine asked lightly. Her eyes were trained on his fingers where they trembled against the armrests of his chair. Cullen squeezed his hands around the wood to stop the shaking.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

The Inquisitor had said nothing yet, her eyes flickering from Leliana to Josephine to Cullen. A moment of silence fell, each of the advisors waiting for the deciding vote of the Inquisitor to be cast.

“You are, of course, welcome to join the party if you feel it’s necessary.” The Inquisitor looked at him pointedly, emphasizing the latter part of her sentence.

“I do.”

“Then there’s no more to discuss. We will leave at first light tomorrow.”

The advisors nodded their approval, and the war council was brought to an end.

The next morning dawned clear and cold, as was the norm in Skyhold. Cullen had already been awake for hours when the first rays of sunlight broke over the mountains to the east. For once, he had stayed in bed for a while before rising. He had needed some time to gather his thoughts before starting the day.

Ever since the incident after their chess game, Cullen had been apprehensive around the Inquisitor. Too unnerved to broach the subject of what had almost happened, he had contented himself with imagining different theories to explain her behavior. The most likely one was that he had misread the situation, and she acted like nothing had happened to save him from any further embarrassment. She was the Inquisitor, after all. She was a high-born lady of the house Trevelyan, the leader of their order, his superior officer. These feelings that he had only recently admitted to himself were unprofessional and impossible. Any match she made would carry heavy political consequences for the Inquisition. Even if she somehow, impossibly, felt for him as he did for her, he could not think that she would tie herself to a partnership with no gain. She was too devoted to the Inquisition, much more devoted than she could ever be to him. She was not like him. She was not one to shirk her duty as he once had.

It followed that, even if the other theory for her behavior - the one that kept him up at night - proved to be true, nothing could come of it. And thus it made little sense to wallow in awkwardness at the thought of spending some weeks on the road alongside her. With that decision, he forced himself out of bed.

Clad in armor, a thick red cape and his fur collar, Cullen hoisted his pack on his shoulder and made his way to the stables. He had packed light for travel, the only truly cumbersome thing in his pack a collection of sleeping draughts, and opted for simple plate armor instead of the mix of heavy plate and chainmail he usually wore. Dorian was by the stalls already, fussing over his mount’s equipment. He stood up as Cullen approached.

“Don’t trust us to take care of this matter without you, then?” The mage gave him a sidelong look, a glint of amusement in his eye. “I could scarcely believe it when they said you’d be joining us. I thought you’d become nothing more than a paper-pushing bureaucrat. Think you’ll still be able to keep up with us real fighters?” 

Cullen huffed in amusement despite himself. “I spend all my days training with my men, while you tag along with the Inquisitor, running from one place to another. I think you’ll find your definition of a ‘real fighter’ is somewhat misguided.”

“Ouch.” Cullen hadn’t noticed the Inquisitor enter the stables behind them until she spoke. The woman had an unnerving way of sneaking up on him at the most inopportune moments. “That certainly puts me in my place. Here I was thinking the esteemed Commander actually valued our efforts on behalf of the Inquisition.”

“Pardon me, Inquisitor… I… I didn’t mean to…” 

“She’s teasing you, Curly. You’ll have to stop taking everything so seriously if you’re going to survive travelling with us.” Varric appeared in the doorway behind the Inquisitor, grinning at Cullen. “I can tell this is going to be a fun trip.”

“For us, certainly,” Dorian added. “Perhaps not for the Commander.”

The Inquisitor laughed then, a melodic sound that set Cullen’s heart aflutter. He nearly always dealt with Amalia in her official persona, their meetings mostly consisting of war councils and dinners with visiting dignitaries. Here, she was a woman among her friends, not a leader among her people. Her reactions were more immediate, more sincere, as she let the carefully cultivated façade of the Inquisitor drop a little to show more of her true self. The awkwardness he’d felt in her presence these past few days melted away.

They were soon joined by the rest of their party. “Good morning, my dears,” Vivienne greeted them, looking only at the Inquisitor as she spoke. Cullen had never liked the mage, though he knew Amalia was fond of her. Cullen, on the other hand, respected Vivienne for what she was - he knew the type of skill and perseverance it took to reach the position she had obtained in the Orlesian court. Not only that, but he had heard she was a singularly gifted mage, one of the only ones in the Inquisition who could train with Amalia and keep up. Thus, his respect came with no small amount of mistrust.

Blackwall merely grunted in greeting, his bushy beard doing little to hide the severe set of his mouth and clenched jaw. “I’m afraid Warden Blackwall is not a morning person,” Dorian told Cullen, overly dramatically stage-whispering the confession in supposed confidence. “You’ll have more luck with him in a few hours.” The Tevinter was silenced by a dark glare from Blackwall.

Finally, the last straggler, Cole, arrived. “Oh, are we going on horses?” The boy, or man, seemed excited at the prospect. “There should be more trips where we go on horses.” His comment earned him an affectionate smile from Amalia, and once again Cullen felt his heart thump in his chest. He caught Dorian eyeing him and turned his gaze pointedly from the Inquisitor.

Thankfully, the stable hands on duty brought out their horses before the Tevinter could embarrass him further. Cullen had never particularly liked horses; anything that big with a mind of its own was enough to put him on edge. He preferred smaller animals such as hounds. He had, however, found an understanding with his own mount. Cullen took the proffered horse’s reins, patting him solidly on the neck and thanking the stable hand. Trumpeter was a steadfast old destrier, powerfully and heavily built, shining black coat faded to a mottled grey to reflect years of experience. An ugly, jagged scar ran the length of the gelding’s head, starting from above his hollow right eye socket and cutting across his face before finally ending at the corner of his mouth on the opposite side. Trumpeter had been severely wounded by a sword in the heat of battle many years ago, losing his right eye in the process. Despite his past and his age, Trumpeter was as hardy and strong as they came, with a calm temperament not easily found in younger horses.

The same could not be said of the Inquisitor’s horse. Just as Cullen had finished this last thought, a piercing whinny split the calm of the morning. The Commander and Trumpeter both turned to see the aforementioned animal prancing around Amalia, his head high and his nostrils flared. Amalia was laughing. Unlike Cullen, the Inquisitor was of noble birth. She had grown up around horses and was not disquieted by the antics of a particularly spirited one. The golden coat of the young stallion glinted in the morning sun as he continued to have difficulty keeping all four legs on the ground. A lithe, supple animal, he had been a personal gift for the Inquisitor from their horsemaster, the best horse in their stables. Amalia cherished him, even high-strung and difficult as he was. For some inexplicable reason, she had named the stallion Rabbit.

All around them, their companions were beginning to mount their horses. Cole, sitting astride a skinny grey creature so small it was almost a pony, had been the first one up. He was followed closely by Blackwall, whose burly brown horse was stout and eternally bad-tempered. Varric was similarly already in the saddle, atop a large chestnut gelding with a fiery glint in its eyes. Dorian still fussed over his little black mare’s equipment, reaching over to rub the horse’s nose every now and again when she turned around to affectionately blow warm air in his face. Vivienne, always prompt, was already by the gate, her black-and-white gelding waiting patiently while his mistresses’ facial expression was anything but.

Finally Dorian, Cullen and the Inquisitor were all in the saddle as well. They oriented themselves in a loose column, Dorian and the Inquisitor taking the lead. Cullen was just about to ride up to their side, taking the opportunity to talk to Amalia about something other than their work, when he was cut off by Blackwall. A little disappointed, Cullen fell back to the end of the column, taking a place by Varric’s side. The dwarf eyed him knowingly, but Cullen refused to meet his gaze. He knew perfectly well how ridiculous he was without being reminded of it every waking moment by the rest of the Inquisition.

“Boss!” Their departure was halted by a deep voice from across the courtyard. The Iron Bull was approaching, waving his hand. Carrying nothing but the great axe slung across his back and the armor he was wearing, he jogged up to them. “Is it still possible to volunteer for this little expedition? I’ve got a craving for some real fighting.”

“You haven’t a mount,” the Inquisitor told him in lieu of replying.

“Is that so?” The Iron Bull glanced toward Dorian, who smirked. “I think I can keep up anyway. I’m a lot faster than I look.”

The Inquisitor and Dorian looked at each other, a silent conversation playing out between them in the span of a few heartbeats. Finally, the corner of Amalia’s mouth turned up in a smile, and she turned her attention back towards the Iron Bull. “Welcome aboard, Bull.”

“Thanks, boss.” The Iron Bull moved up to Dorian’s side.

Amalia motioned for the guards posted by the gate to open them, and the column moved out at a brisk pace. The gates swung shut behind them, and they were off. The Iron Bull proved to be true to his word - he could keep pace with Dorian’s little mare quite easily.

Cullen was enjoying himself. The midmorning sun was warm on his face, the cool mountain air fresh and intoxicating. He could smell snow on the breeze, almost but not quite overpowered by the scent of the pine needles being crushed under his horse’s hooves. The trees around them were wreathed in moss, and the sunlight that shone through them painted the world in joyful, vibrant colors. Though the reason for this mission was unpleasant, to say the least, the break from routine was welcome. As much as he loved his post, his men and Skyhold, it was a relief to get away for a while. To be quite frank, it was a relief not to be Commander Cullen for a moment. He was one of a party of soldiers, on their way to complete a single mission. There was a simplicity in it that he had been missing for years now.

Varric was quiet beside him, his eyes cast down. It dawned on Cullen that he hadn’t seen much of the dwarf since the battle of Adamant Fortress - since Hawke had gone into the Fade and never come back. Usually, Varric spent every possible moment among the other members of the Inquisition, telling stories, buying drinks and playing cards. In the last few weeks, he had taken to spending time alone in his quarters or in dark corners of the tavern.

“Are you well, Varric?” Cullen couldn’t think of a more delicate way to phrase the question.

“No,” the dwarf replied, chuckling without mirth. “But I suppose you know that, or you wouldn’t be asking.”

There was a brief pause in their conversation, during which Cullen struggled to find words to help Varric in his pain, though he knew it was impossible. “Hawke was a good person. I can’t remember ever admiring anyone’s moral center quite as much as Hawke’s during what happened in Kirkwall.”

“Thanks, Curly. That means a lot, coming from you.” The dwarf brushed his hand across his eyes, wiping away the beginnings of a tear he clearly didn’t want to admit to. “I just can’t believe she’s gone.”

“She died a hero.”

“She should have died old, wrinkled and happy. I suppose heroes never do.”

Cullen’s eyes flicked quickly to Amalia and then back to Varric. The gesture did not go unnoticed by the dwarf. “Don’t worry. She still might,” he added quietly.

“Held by hands she cannot see, lost to a monster with no face, her throat catching, her breath gasping. Too far, too risky. She cannot go. If she runs now the others will fall.” Cole had suddenly appeared behind them, somehow moving without notice even on horseback. “She wishes she could have said goodbye, but she knows it is better this way. She has been through so much, lost so many. She can give a chance to those who still have something left to lose. This is right. She walks among the dead already. She can see him, hear him, but she can’t feel him, not anymore. She knows he is here, and the knowledge is pain. She wants to touch him, reach out and hold him. Perhaps, after this, it won’t hurt anymore. Perhaps, after this, she and Anders will be together again. There would be no more Justice, no more battles. She would be so happy. She stops fighting, and her last thought is of home.”

Cullen froze in place. Varric turned slowly towards Cole, catching his eye from under his broad-brimmed hat. “Thanks, kid.” The boy nudged his horse forward without saying another word, and the men were left alone again. Varric seemed to have gained some comfort from Cole’s words, the retelling of the last moments of Hawke’s life. “I hope she finds peace,” he finally said.

There was nothing more Cullen could say to that. Silence fell between them. They rode on side by side, each looking around at the world around them and lost deep in thought. It continued this way past winding rivers that turned into lakes, fields and evergreen forests, and outcrops of jagged rock in the face of the mountain. It was nearly nightfall when they reached a clearing at the foot of the mountains. The Inquisitor called for a halt. “We’ve made good progress. Let’s camp here for tonight.”

There was a flurry of activity, a perfectly choreographed dance by a skilled troupe that had been working together for a long time. Without being instructed, everyone saw to their own tasks, not getting in each other’s way despite the close quarters. Cullen concentrated on his own tent, not wanting to be the one to interrupt the clear division of roles in the group. By the time darkness fell, their horses were tethered, their tents erected and a large fire had been built in the middle of their little clearing. Three large hares, plucked from the bushes by the Iron Bull as they had travelled, were gutted and spitted over the crackling logs, sending a tantalizing aroma of roasting meat wafting through the camp. Beside them, in a heavy cast-iron pot halfway submerged in the glowing embers, a collection of root vegetables simmered in water.

Blackwall was tending to their meal, knelt beside the flames with the Inquisitor sitting beside him. The two were engaged in a quiet conversation. One by one the other members of the party drifted towards the warm circle of light cast by their fire. Cullen followed, taking a place near Amalia. He winced as he sat on the hard ground, his muscles sore from both lack of lyrium and a day spent on horseback. Across the fire, from his seat by the Iron Bull, Dorian smirked at him.

“So, what was that about training all day?” The Tevinter drawled, and everyone’s eyes turned to Cullen.

“Fighting. Not riding.”

Amalia, who had broken off her conversation with Blackwall to look at him as well, leaned over towards him. She lowered her voice to speak to him, and only him, as the others around the fire turned back to their own conversations. “Sore? Is it just from the ride down?”

There was no point in denying it, Cullen decided. She was his commander on this mission, and she needed to know the facts of his situation. With her scrutiny of his expression, he doubted he could have gotten away with a lie, anyway. “No,” he admitted quietly.

“You’ll let me know if it’s… too much? If you need to return to Skyhold? We’ll make sure no one else knows the reason why.”

Cullen was touched by her concern almost as much as he was annoyed at its necessity. “Of course, Inquisitor - but I doubt it will come to that.”

She smiled at him then, placing a hand on his arm and squeezing tightly. The leaping light of the flames before them danced across her eyes as their gazes met, painting them an even deeper shade of amber than usual, almost orange in its intensity. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and the smell of her, of lemon and mint, assaulted his senses. Tendrils of her golden blonde hair had come undone from the tight braid wound about her head, framing her face, drawing his attention towards where they curled toward the corner of her lips… He jerked his eyes away from that dangerous area, suddenly acutely aware that Blackwall was watching them from the other side of the Inquisitor.

Cullen swallowed hard and turned his attention to the fire. The nervousness her good humor had melted away before was back with a vengeance. He felt it in the pit of his stomach, a knotted ball that reminded him of his inappropriate feelings toward the woman beside him. He heard a sigh as Amalia leaned back on her arms, away from him this time. Blackwall immediately engaged her in conversation, and soon Cullen could hear him laughing quietly at something she had said. He didn’t think he’d ever heard the Warden laugh before. The man was stoic at best.

Their food was ready soon. Taking the first bite of his rabbit haunch, Cullen was surprised to find it absolutely delicious. It had been slathered in a thick, spicy sauce that perfectly complimented the gamey taste of the meat. Blackwall had clearly been given the task of tending to their meals for good reason.

Their stomachs full, the members of their party started yawning, and one by one retreated to their bedrolls. The Inquisitor was among the first to go, bidding the company good night before disappearing behind the flap of canvas covering the nearest tent. The Iron Bull had been given the first watch shift, and he took off to set himself up in the corner of the clearing, looking alert.

Finally, only Cullen and Dorian remained. The mage moved over to Cullen’s side of the fire, taking a seat beside him. “Not feeling sleepy, then?” He asked the Commander.

“Exhausted, actually.”

“Ah. But that’s different from being sleepy, isn’t it?”

Cullen smiled slightly at his friend’s astute observation. They had never really spoken of the specifics of his lyrium withdrawal symptoms, but he knew Dorian had surmised the basics from the hints etched all over Cullen. His face was drawn and pallid, a side effect of the constant fever wracking his body. The shadows under his eyes were deep and dark, a sign of the sleepless nights brought on by nightmares. His arms and legs trembled more often than not now, both from pain and the weakness that had taken hold when his strength had left with the lyrium.

“I read something in a book. May I?” Dorian offered his palm towards Cullen, a green mist swirling in its center.

Cullen could smell the magic, feel it radiate across his skin, and his entire body stiffened in automated response. He looked at Dorian, and the mage nodded in encouragement. Slowly, carefully, Cullen placed his own palm on the green mist.

The effect was immediate. A cooling breeze washed through his body, sweeping away the tremble in his muscles and the heat in his veins. His head felt clearer, and even ached a little less.

“What was that?” Cullen asked in amazement.

“A spell to drive away fever. Well, the feeling of fever. It doesn’t actually leave your body, your senses just stop feeling it.” Dorian put his hand down, the green mist dissipating. “It shouldn’t be used often. You could technically have such a high fever that it required actual medical assistance and not feel it, which might not be good for things like staying alive. But I thought, maybe just for a few nights. It might help you sleep.”

“Thank you, Dorian.” 

“Ah, don’t thank me. This is pure self interest. You’re much more pleasing to the eye when you’re more presentable.” The Tevinter gave him a lopsided smile. Cullen was too used to his teasing to be put ill at ease by it anymore, so he just returned the smile with a slight roll of his eyes. Dorian chuckled in response, before getting up. “Well, I’m off to my tent. Try to get some sleep as well, Commander.”

Cullen lifted his hand in a wordless goodbye. The mage left, leaving him alone by the dwindling flames of the fire, staring into the glowing coals. He really was tired, and, with the chill and shakes of the fever gone, his eyelids were starting to feel pleasantly heavy. Perhaps tonight would be a good night for sleep.

Soon, the siren call of his bedroll was too tempting to resist. His aching thighs protesting, he pushed himself up to his feet and made his way to his tent. It wasn’t long before he was tucked away in his bedroll, drifting off to sleep faster than he thought possible.

It was morning before he knew it. Cullen sat up in his bedroll, astonished to see the first rays of sunshine peeking in through the small cracks between his tent’s canvases. He felt refreshed. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had a dreamless, peaceful sleep. Cullen stretched his arms, reveling in the sensation of energy coursing through him, so unfamiliar these days.

Cullen nearly jumped out of his bedroll when his eyes fell on the person kneeling across from him, watching him intently as a small smile played on her lips.

“Inquisitor?”

“I’m glad to see you’ve slept well.” Her voice was quiet, her expression thoughtful. She moved closer to him, holding his gaze in her own.

“I… I did.” Cullen swallowed noisily, suddenly acutely aware of his exposed chest. Amalia was right next to him now, her intoxicating scent enveloping him. He could feel her breath cool on his skin. Cullen took a deep breath to calm the jumble of thoughts in his head. 

“There was something I wanted to do last night.” Amalia’s eyes wandered across his face and down his chest as she spoke, down and then back up to meet his own again. “I would like to do it now, if I may.”

Cullen did not dare to speak. His breath hitched, and he could see her eyes flicker down to his lips, and then back to his eyes. There was a silent question in her gaze, and Cullen parted his lips in answer, nervously moistening them with the tip of his tongue. She leaned into him, and the taste of her lips on his was everything he had ever dreamt of. His heart pounded in his ears; his eyelids fluttered shut. Cullen wrapped his arms around her, pulled her against his bare chest and held her close. She was so warm, so soft. Every curve of her body molded to fit his, two puzzle pieces fitting together seamlessly. He ran his arms up her back. 

Reaching her neck to cradle her face even closer to his, he suddenly felt something that shouldn’t be there. Hard keratin plates, smooth and cold to the touch. Scales. The taste of her on his tongue soured, turning from fresh lemons and mint to rotting flesh. He gagged, cowering backwards, his eyes snapping open to stare into the blood red eyes of the desire demon curled in his embrace. He grunted in disgust as he tried to shove the creature away from him.

“Hush now, my pet,” the demon crooned in Amalia’s voice. It tightened its grip on the bare flesh of his back, and he could feel trickles of blood run down his skin where the demon’s talons left their mark. “Hush now. Just let this happen. You want this so much. It’s so easy to get into your head because this is your greatest wish, your deepest, darkest desire. I can give it all to you, if you’ll only let me.” The demon’s face shimmered, flickers of Amalia’s features taking over momentarily as it tried to bring him back into its deception. 

“No.” Cullen’s voice faltered as he spoke, and he gritted his teeth.

The demon smiled, making light of his protest. “Think of everything I can give you. If only you’ll let me in…”

“No. Leave me be.”

The demon cocked an eyebrow at him as it sensed his weakness. Its face gained more and more characteristics of the woman he loved, until finally the eyes boring into him were a familiar, deep gold… and then all of a sudden it was dark in the tent. Cullen was on his back, his bedroll tangled at his feet and his chest glistening with a faint sheen of sweat.

“Cullen? Cullen?” A voice by his side repeated his name, the same and yet altogether different as the voice of the demon that had finally gotten inside his head. “Are you alright?”

“Go away; leave me be.” He could see it silhouetted against the canvas of the tent. In the faint light of the moon, the demon’s shape was familiar - long, golden hair framing a heart-shaped face, a dainty nose set above full lips, a strong chin to offset otherwise soft features. And those eyes, those eyes that he would recognize anywhere. Molten gold fringed with yellow, seeming to shine even in the relative darkness.

“It was just a dream, Cullen.” It reached out a hand to touch him in comfort, but he recoiled, getting on his knees and backing away until his back was against the tent canvas. How could he be sure this wasn’t another trick? The demon had taken her form, even after he discovered its deception. It was growing stronger… or he was growing weaker.

“I know what you are, demon.”

“Cullen, it’s me.”

“No.”

Even as he spoke, the demon wearing Amalia’s face drew closer and closer, until finally its hand pressed against his chest. The contact terrified him, set his heart racing, clouded his judgment. As if on their own, his arms moved to grab the creature, to shove it away with all the force he could muster, to pin it down and end it once and for all, to make sure it could never torment him again.

But his hands never reached the demon. There was a sizzle as his fingers met resistance. A burning hot barrier of flame flashed across the demon’s skin the instant it noticed his intentions. Cullen yanked his hands back, the tips of his fingers burning with agony where they had come into contact with the barrier. The magic shot through his body, and he could feel his blood reach out for the lyrium that was no longer there, seeking the power to fight the mage before him.

The pain in his fingers brought him back to his senses. This was not a spell cast by a demon. The golden eyes looking at him, wide open in surprise at his violent reaction to her touch, belonged to none other than the Inquisitor. Amalia. 

She backed away from him, the red haze of the barrier still clinging to her body and lighting up the tent so they could see each other despite the darkness outside. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. Her eyes, so expressive when she allowed, were unreadable.

She was sorry? Cullen looked at his hands, horrified at the thought of what he might have done to her if she had not protected herself. The instinct to attack the demon that had reared up inside of him had been so strong, so violent. 

Cullen looked up again, an answering apology on his lips, to find her gone. 


	24. Tranquil

Cullen’s fingers hurt. Blisters had formed overnight, protecting the sensitive spots where magic had seared away the skin. He caught the Inquisitor eyeing him as he attempted to undo the knots that kept his tent canvas tied to its framework, trying very hard to look like the task wasn’t next to impossible for him with his fingers the way they were. He didn’t struggle alone for long; the Inquisitor appeared beside him, helping him with the rough ropes without saying a word.

“Inquisitor…” Cullen began.

She turned to look at him, scrambling his thoughts, as she was wont to do.

“I just wanted to apologize for last night.” Cullen’s hand found his neck, rubbing it as if the nervous tic could help him formulate a coherent sentence. “I was… not myself.”

“It was my mistake, Commander.” She matched his quiet tone. Her help proved effective; the tent canvas fell to the ground. She sighed and continued, “I didn’t think. I had the watch shift, and I heard you… stirring. It was foolish of me to intrude.”

They were interrupted just as Cullen was about to tell her that he she hadn’t  _ intruded _ . “Hey, boss!” The Iron Bull called across the clearing. “Have you seen Dorian?”

“Or the kid, for that matter,” Varric added, appearing from between the two tents that were still erect in the center of their campsite.

“Maker’s balls,” the Inquisitor swore, her gaze falling on the place where the horses were tethered - where two horses, a little black mare and a skinny grey pony, were missing. Blackwall grunted in amusement, hearing his own favorite curse on the Inquisitor’s usually refined tongue. “I told him not to…” Amalia’s eyes flickered to Cullen, and she stopped herself mid-sentence. She took a deep breath before continuing. “Dorian has a personal errand. He has taken Cole for assistance. I’m sure we’ll meet back with them in Skyhold when we return.” Her voice was steely. Wherever Dorian had gone, they had clearly had a difference of opinion over whether or not he should be allowed to go. The Inquisitor was not often disobeyed.

And that was all the Inquisitor would say about that. Varric and the Iron Bull pestered her for answers the next few days, but she would not relent. The Iron Bull’s keen interest in Dorian’s whereabouts took Cullen by surprise; he hadn’t really thought the Qunari mercenary cared either way about anyone in the Inquisition, bar ensuring they were good enough fighters to cover his back when needed. His concern was usually saved for their cause only, his allegiance to the Inquisitor born more from that than any personal feelings. Varric’s worry about Cole, on the other hand, was unsurprising. The dwarf had taken the boy under his wing and was always the first to voice displeasure when someone gave him a hard time. The Inquisitor’s assurances that Dorian would keep Cole safe were not enough to convince the dwarf.

They continued toward the Shrine of Dumat with what remained of their party: Vivienne, Blackwall, Cullen, the Inquisitor, and the two unrelenting riddlers concerned only with the whereabouts of their subjects of interest. Finally, three days later, the Inquisitor snapped at them, bringing about the end of that particular conversation. 

That day set the tone for the rest of their journey. Conversation between Cullen and the Inquisitor was strained. The awkwardness of their nightly encounter still clear in Cullen’s mind, he elected to handle the situation by reverting to an overly formal tone whenever they spoke. The Inquisitor, always obliging, responded in kind. It didn’t escape Cullen’s notice that Varric clearly sensed something was going on between them. In such close quarters, it would have been a surprise if he hadn’t. If Vivienne, Blackwall or the Iron Bull noticed, however, they gave nothing away. Blackwall took advantage of Dorian’s absence and Cullen’s continued awkwardness and spent all his time by the Inquisitor’s side. Vivienne maintained her distance from the rest of the party, speaking only with the Inquisitor and only when absolutely necessary. The Iron Bull and Varric, bonded over their mutual project to find out more about the location of the deserters, were the loudest of the group, joking, telling stories and laughing amongst themselves more often than not. The Inquisitor was uncharacteristically quiet, and a few times Cullen saw her furrowing her brow, her face drawn with worry when she thought no one was looking.

Around them, snowy mountains and evergreen forests turned into grasslands. They crossed the Waking Sea on the fourth day, and found themselves back among the mountains by the sixth.

So it was that the Shrine of Dumat drew nearer. Huddled around a campfire in the clearing that served as their last campsite before battle, the company formulated a plan. Cullen, the Iron Bull and Blackwall were to lead the battle, hoping to draw attention from the mages and rogue. And, of course, they would be taking advantage of the strategic mind they had at their disposal. “Commander, I’ll trust you to make strategic calls during the raid as they are needed,” the Inquisitor told him, and he nodded in reply.

“Usually it’s Amalia who makes all the calls,” Varric added, smiling slyly. “Remember that case with the terror demons and the fire wall? We could definitely use you around more often, Curly.”

“That entire situation was  _ not _ my fault. Besides, I won the Commander at chess just the other week.” Amalia protested, the pride in her voice giving her a haughty air.

Cullen bit the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. He somehow doubted the Inquisitor would react well to knowing that he had let her win. He could see where she might have some trouble with strategic planning. She was prone to over-confidence, though he was sure her care for the wellbeing of her allies trumped that flaw in most cases. He doubted she would ever put anyone other than herself in danger on a battlefield - not that the thought of her being in danger was acceptable to him, either.

After Varric’s comment, however, he was even more glad he had come along. There was no telling how dangerous Samson and his men could be, and he felt much better knowing he would be at the Inquisitor’s side when she faced him. In this, at least, he could keep her safe.

Cullen noticed he had been absentmindedly staring at her when Varric cleared his throat and gave him a pointed look. Cullen was glad for the flickering red lighting; no one could see the heat flush to his cheeks as he hurriedly looked away. 

The plan settled, the company turned to their bedrolls, with the exception of Cullen. He had taken the first watch, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. Their fire slowly burned smaller, until finally it sizzled out and he was plunged into darkness. Cullen didn’t mind - he preferred keeping watch in the dark. As one sense dulled, he felt his others heighten. He was acutely aware of every rustle, every slight breeze, every smell on the wind. Left alone with his thoughts, sitting in the darkness of the silent camp, his mind drifted. 

His nights had been exceptionally restless of late, both from nightmares and his painful burnt fingertips. Dorian’s fever spell had also worn off, giving his chills and aches the chance to haunt him again. But these issues had plagued him before, and yet his insomnia had never been this bad. After the unfortunate incident a few nights back, he had found he was afraid to sleep in such close quarters with the Inquisitor. If she hadn’t cast the barrier to protect herself, he didn’t know what he might have done to her. The thought scared him, more than anything the lyrium withdrawal had driven him to do thus far. What if next time she wasn’t as quick to react?

Cullen had thought for the past few months that there was nothing in the world that could drive him back to lyrium. The agony of the physical withdrawal and the terror of the hallucinations were still better than the lyrium-induced haze he had spent over ten years in, the single-minded constant need to be sure of his next dose. Suddenly, he found himself faced with a problem that might force his hand. Even the horror of returning to a life tied to lyrium paled in comparison to the horror of a life without her.

It was funny how the one thing that could drive him back to lyrium was the one thing he had thought would give him the strength to succeed in breaking his addiction.

The moon rose further and further into the sky, and soon Cullen’s dark thoughts were interrupted by a rustle from the tents he was guarding. He tensed, sword in hand and ready to leap into action, but it was just the Iron Bull, coming to relieve him of his watch. 

Cullen withdrew into his tent, still wide awake despite the late hour. He resolved to at least close his eyes for a while, remembering that his mother had always told him that even without sleep, lying with one’s eyes closed constituted rest. He was pretty sure that was something she had just told him to get him to go to bed and be still for a while. He smiled at the memory, but closed his eyes anyway.

It wasn’t long until the first rays of sunlight crept through the cracks around the flap of his tent and into his eyes. Cullen stayed in his bedroll for a moment, steadying his breathing and emptying his mind in his pre-battle ritual. He pushed the scared, lyrium-addled ex-templar with an inappropriate infatuation toward his superior officer into the background, concentrating on the parts of him that would be useful in the fight to come: his tactical mind and his blade. 

After coming together for a breakfast of cured meat and bread, the party broke apart their camp, saddled their horses and began the final leg of their journey. They reached the Shrine of Dumat before noon and tethered their horses just out of sight before advancing.

Far from the decrepit, borderline indefensible one-roomed hideout Cullen had expected, the shrine was nearly a fortress. Two large courtyards encircled by high walls peppered with archers’ nests sprawled out before a colossus of a building, its walls thick stone and watchtowers on its every corner. The entire party stopped to stare for a moment, their hopes of an easy fight crumbling into the dust. If the entirety of Samson’s forces were in there, as they were expecting, and there were only six of them… the prospects did not look good.

“So… are we going in or what?” The Iron Bull was the first to break the silence, gesturing towards the front gates with his battle axe.

The Inquisitor looked at Cullen, expectant.

“We have to be smart about this,” he said carefully, his mind preoccupied with planning. “In all likelihood they outnumber us ten to one, and they have the defensive advantage. The only advantage we can hope to press is the element of surprise.”

“What are you suggesting, Commander?” Blackwall asked.

“We need to whittle down their forces; take them one group at a time. Charging in through the front entrance may not be the best way to accomplish that.”

The Iron Bull snorted, hefting his axe on his shoulder. “That doesn’t sound nearly as fun as my plan.”

“Regardless, my dear, I believe we would do well to follow the Commander’s suggestion,” Vivienne chimed in. “Perhaps next time we can revert to our usual crude methods.”

The Inquisitor huffed quietly, clearly taking the other mage’s words as a slight on her strategic abilities. When she spoke again, however, her voice betrayed no emotion. “Is there another way inside?”

“Most fortresses will have numerous entrances for strategic reasons.” Cullen scratched his chin, stubbled after travel, thoughtfully. “This is a shrine, however. It wasn’t built to withstand sieges. I’m not sure if we’ll find another way in.”

“So the main gate it is?” The Iron Bull’s eyes shone.

“We’ll circle the perimeter first, on the off chance… otherwise, yes, we go in by the main gate. The Iron Bull and Vivienne can check to the right. Varric, Inquisitor, you can check to the left. Blackwall and I will stay here and keep watch. Meet here and report back as soon as possible. And stay out of sight!”

It didn’t take them long to discern that Cullen had been correct - the outer walls of the shrine’s courtyards were smooth stone, with not so much as a crack to enter by.

“Oh yes,” the Iron Bull said with so much enthusiasm it almost came out a moan. Vivienne sighed loudly in response, looking at the Qunari with disdain. Clearly the mage considered it ill bred to be excited by killing.

“As I stated before, we are not charging. We go in quickly, we go in quietly, and we attempt to engage small groups at a time. It’s our best chance to get to Samson.” Something feral in Cullen’s stomach curled at the thought of Samson. He was so near Cullen could almost taste the bloodlust. They could finally bring an end to him, to this man who had brought such pain to those who had once been Cullen’s brothers.

Spurred on by the thought, Cullen moved forward. “Let’s go. After me.” He took care to orient himself in front of the Iron Bull to stop the Qunari from charging off in the heat of battle. Blackwall moved to his left, and the mages and rogue took up their positions in the rear.

They sensed something was wrong the moment they stepped under the massive stone portcullis and into the courtyard. Broken crates and collapsed tents lay scattered on the cobblestones around them, interspersed with numerous bonfires of books and paper. The air was thick with smoke and ashes, the stillness of the day and tall walls keeping the smoke trapped. Cullen had to work to keep from coughing, his eyes stinging and watering as his lungs protested against the fumes.

And not a single enemy was in sight. The company picked their way forward, their weapons in hand, carefully approaching the next courtyard. The further they advanced into the shrine, the more they had to weave in between the discarded remnants of tents and fires.

“Someone’s left in a hurry,” the Inquisitor said quietly, and Cullen felt a stab of despair in his gut. Samson. Samson had known they were coming. He wasn’t here.

“We should still look around,” Varric pointed out. “We might learn something.”

Vivienne, daintily stepping over a pile of smoldering books, crinkled her nose and said nothing.

The inside of the building was in absolute chaos. In many places, red lyrium crystals had breached the walls and floor of the shrine. The red spires cast an ominous red glow over the entire room as they spiralled toward the ceiling, taller than even the Iron Bull. More fires burned here, though they burned slower and smaller; these had clearly been the first ones lit. Burnt pieces of paper had blown about the room, covering the white marble floor in a layer of soot.

Cullen looked around, trying to see if there was anything here that could be of any use to them, but spotted nothing that wasn’t destroyed beyond recognition. Even more disappointingly, the shrine seemed completely deserted.

“Cullen, look out!” The Inquisitor suddenly shouted, throwing her hand out toward him, and Cullen spun around just in time to see a red templar smash into the barrier the Inquisitor had cast to cover him. He brandished his sword, meeting the creature’s next attack with a clash of metal on crystal. The magic still weaving up and down Cullen’s body like blue lightning exploded then, knocking the red templar to the ground. The creature let out an inhuman screech, its eyes spinning wildly in its head as it struggled futilely to get back on its feet. A pillar of ice was securely lodged in the creature’s stomach, pinning it to the ground.

“What is that thing?” Varric breathed in astonishment. The Inquisitor advanced on the creature, a yellow ethereal sword materializing in her hand. She swung it down, hard, and the screeching of the creature stopped abruptly. Its head rolled across the floor to stop at Cullen’s feet.

It was a red templar, but unlike any red templar they had seen before. As he looked at the creature, Cullen could feel the red lyrium, hear its distorted song deep in his bones. Where a man’s forearms had once been, the creature had two spikes of red lyrium crystal, honed into sharp edges. Its legs were the same. The rest of the creature’s body was covered in a mass of red crystal. Between the crystals, remnants of skin could be seen, clinging to the spikes that had pierced it. The smell was overpowering; the stench of rotting flesh and the sharp, almost minty smell of lyrium mixed in a way they never should be. It was all Cullen could do to stop himself from gagging. He looked away in disgust. 

The others moved closer to inspect the body. As they watched, the form of what had once been a man seemed to shiver, blinking in and out of existence rapidly.

“I guess we know how it snuck up on us now,” the Inquisitor said dryly. “This must be some kind of scout.”

“Do you think there are more of them?” Blackwall asked, looking around. He was clearly unsettled, his brow furrowed and his jaw tense.

“I think we would be fools to assume there weren’t,” Cullen said, finally having regained some control over the roiling in his stomach. “We should move forward. There must be something here to find if Samson left men behind to guard it.”

The Inquisitor nodded, and the party once again moved forward. The two mages took turns casting barriers, keeping their number protected against another possible attack that no one could see coming.

The truth behind Cullen’s words was proven in the next room. As soon as they stepped in, there was a screech and another red templar scout appeared right next to them. It swung its arms toward Cullen, who parried the blow just in time. The first scout was joined by a second, locking arms with the Iron Bull’s great axe. Vivienne cried out, a pillar of electricity leaving her fingertips and dropping the creature Cullen had been fighting on the floor. With a swift swing of his sword, Cullen severed the red templar’s head. He looked over to see the Iron Bull’s axe come down hard against the skull of the second scout, crushing it into the ground.

From across the room, they heard a roar. A hulking great beast, twice the size of any regular man, ambled across the floor toward them. One of its arms was a spike similar to the one the scouts carried; the other, a massive deformed ball of red lyrium. Its legs were similar balls, explaining its slow gait. It swung the red lyrium ball, roaring ferociously as it slowly advanced upon the company.

“Blackwall, Bull, with me!” Cullen yelled before charging the creature, diving behind its back as it swung at him. Blackwall and the Iron Bull leapt into action beside him, and the three warriors surrounded the creature. Cullen swung his sword at its feet, trying to bring it to its knees, but the jarring clang of sword on crystal told him they could not do much to this hulking beast with the weapons at their disposal. Crossbow bolts rained down on him from above, Varric’s shots also proving ineffective as they glanced off the behemoth’s head.

Cullen dove out of the way of the next swing of the creature’s club arm, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. The club struck his right shoulder, making him cry out and hit the ground hard. Beside him, Blackwall wasn’t as lucky. The creature caught him in the chest. The warrior was thrown across the room, where he slumped against the wall and didn’t move. Cullen stumbled to his feet, moving his sword to his left hand and holding it as steady as he could. His right arm dangled to his side, his shoulder throbbing

“Blackwall!” The Inquisitor cried, and suddenly she was next to Cullen, having appeared there in a flash of grey smoke. Once again, the glowing yellow sword appeared in her hand, and she slashed towards the creature’s leg. This time, the blow stuck. With an eerie wail, the behemoth collapsed on its knees as the leg gave out under it. Putting all her force behind her sword, the Inquisitor drove the magical blade deep into the creature’s chest. Groaning, the behemoth toppled over and was finally still.

Cullen wiped his hand across his forehead. The Inquisitor once again flashed across the room, appearing by Blackwall’s side in another blast of grey smoke. She knelt beside him, pressing her fingers to his throat, her eyes intent on his face. 

“He’s alive,” she breathed in relief. 

Cullen looked around at the rest of their party. Varric had Bianca hefted on his shoulder, a bead of sweat on his brow the only sign that he’d been in battle. The Iron Bull was breathing loudly and had a scratch across his left cheek, but otherwise seemed fine. Vivienne looked collected and impeccable, as always. Other than his shoulder, Cullen himself was alright.

“Bull, help me straighten him out,” the Inquisitor ordered, and the Qunari hurried to the wounded Warden’s side as well. Together, they stretched Blackwall out on his back and pillowed his head in the Inquisitor’s thick red cape.

Despite the setback, the Inquisitor was determined that they accomplish what they had come here to do. She set them about scouring the room, looking for clues to Samson’s new hideout. Cullen could see by the set of her mouth and the way she hustled her party into action that she was worried about their comrade.

“Stay alert. There might be more of those scouts around,” Cullen reminded everyone as they broke up into search parties: Vivienne and the Iron Bull went one way, and Varric and Cullen the other. The Inquisitor stayed by Blackwall’s side. Cullen could see her bend over to check his pulse and breathing every few minutes.

“You think he’ll be alright?” Varric asked Cullen as they were leafing through a pile of half-burnt papers on the other side of the room.

“We’ll get him help as soon as we can,” Cullen said, in lieu of actually replying. He was no healer; he couldn’t tell the extent of Blackwall’s injuries. He had been unconscious for a worrying amount of time, though.

“Do you mind it?” Varric looked at Cullen from under his brows, eyes intent on his face.

“Mind what?”

“Blackwall. How he is with Amalia.”

Cullen blinked at him, unsure about what Varric was referencing.

The dwarf sighed and rolled his eyes. “Never mind. There’s nothing legible left in these. How about your pile?”

Cullen shook his head. They moved over to the far end of the room, dominated by a crude wooden table with a pile of instruments and a single sheet of paper on it. “What are these?” Varric wondered aloud, picking up one of the metal pieces thoughtfully.

Cullen barely heard him. The paper had his name on it. Hands almost trembling, he picked it up and read aloud.

“ _ Knight-Captain Cullen. Drink enough lyrium, and its song reveals the truth. The Chantry used us. You’re fighting the wrong battle. Corypheus chose me as his general, and his vessel of power. Join us, Cullen. We were brothers once, and we could be brothers again, united by something stronger than blood. Take what you need, and find me when you’re ready. You’ll know the time when it comes. _ ”

Anger coursed through him, setting his blood afire. Cullen crushed the letter in his fist, the trembling in his hands starting in earnest now. How could Samson even  _ think _ he would join them? “The man has gone completely mad,” he muttered, clenching his jaw. He dropped the letter to the floor.

“Samson knew we were coming.”

“Yes.”

“He knew  _ you _ were coming.”

“Yes.”

The barely controlled rage in Cullen’s voice discouraged the dwarf from uttering any more obvious statements. 

“Commander!” Vivienne’s voice called them from behind a large cluster of red lyrium on the other side of the room. Taking a deep breath to calm his anger, Cullen turned to see what she wanted. Behind him, Varric started collecting the tools they’d found on the table.

As Cullen reached Vivienne, he saw a man prone at her feet. His tousled black hair was matted with sweat, which trickled down his brow and over the red sun symbol tattooed there. “Maddox?” Cullen asked, incredulous.

“Hello, Knight-Captain Cullen.” The Tranquil bowed his head in his direction, his voice impassive.

Cullen looked the other man up and down, from his pallid complexion and the sweat on his brow to his hand clutching his stomach. Something was wrong. “Maddox, we’ll get you to a healer.”

“That would be a waste, Knight-Captain. I drank my entire supply of blightcap essence. It won’t be long now.” 

“You… you killed yourself?”

“Yes. And I set fire to the camp. We all agreed this was best. Our deaths have given Samson time to escape.”

“You’ve done this for Samson? Why? Why would you throw away your life for  _ him _ ?” Cullen knelt by the Tranquil. He pulled off his glove, taking the other man’s wrist and feeling for a pulse. When he found it, he knew instantly that Maddox had spoken the truth. His pulse was faint and far too slow. He was nearly gone.

As if to corroborate his findings, Maddox’s eyes began to flutter. “Samson… saved me. He gave me purpose.” The Tranquil’s words came out slurred. “It seemed like… a good reason to…” His voice trailed off, and Maddox slumped over.

Cullen closed his eyes, reciting a small prayer under his breath for the life that had just been lost before him. When he opened them again, he looked to the mage to his left. “Vivienne, could you get the Inquisitor?”

“I’m right here,” a quiet voice said from behind them. Cullen turned to see Amalia. Her expression was troubled. “I heard what he said. Who was this man?”

“Maddox, Samson’s Tranquil. I first met them in Kirkwall, when I was stationed there.”

“You knew him?”

“A little. He was… different back then.”

The Inquisitor raised her eyebrows in question.

“Samson was caught delivering love letters between him and his sweetheart… Maddox paid the price. My Knight-Commander ordered him to be made Tranquil for ‘corrupting a templar’s honor’. Samson was discharged from the Order.”  _ Until I let him back in _ , Cullen added to himself. He looked at Maddox. If Cullen hadn’t let Samson back into the Order, Maddox might still be alive. Cullen could taste bile in his mouth. Samson had to pay. For Maddox, for his former templar brothers, for all the pain and suffering he had caused.

“He was made Tranquil for  _ that _ ?” Amalia’s voice betrayed her revulsion.

“She wielded the brand for far lesser offences.”

The Inquisitor fell silent, her eyes upon Maddox’s body. “We should give him a funeral,” she finally said quietly. In her eyes, she could see the reflection of the greatest fear of any Circle mage: to lose oneself and be made Tranquil. For the Inquisitor, Cullen could imagine that would be a fate worse than death. He shuddered at the thought, pushing it away and returning his attention to her suggestion.

Cullen nodded. “We’ll take him with us. Is Blackwall…?”

“He awoke a moment ago. He’s disoriented and groggy, probably has a concussion… but he should be fine. Vivienne can have a look at him.” She looked at the other mage, who nodded and set off in the direction of the Grey Warden. When she was out of earshot, Amalia sighed. “I wish I was better at healing magic; I could have taken care of it myself. Anyway, Varric said he found some tools he thinks were used to somehow shape the red lyrium. We’ll take them with us and give them to Dagna for study.”

Cullen nodded again, approving of the plan. If anyone, the dwarven arcanist would be able to make sense of this. “Maddox was a singularly talented magical craftsman; even more so after he was made Tranquil.” He looked at the Inquisitor apologetically after she let out a small huff of indignation. “That red lyrium armor Samson wears was probably crafted by him. Perhaps those are his tools we found.”

The Inquisitor motioned towards Maddox’s body, and together they picked him up and carried him to the others. Blackwall was swaying on his feet, but standing of his own accord. At the Inquisitor’s instruction, Cullen put the Warden’s arm around his shoulder to steady him, taking care to favor his own sore shoulder, and the Iron Bull picked up Maddox, who they’d bundled in a torn tent canvas. They made their way to their horses, and began the journey back to Skyhold.

It was a silent ride, each member of the party lost in their own thoughts. Cullen’s spiralled around the letter Samson had left for him.

Did Samson truly believe he was doing the right thing? Had the lyrium warped his mind so completely that he was capable of deluding himself that much? Lyrium certainly had the potential to do so… but so did lyrium withdrawal. Every book, every Seeker, ever senior templar had always warned him about the dangers of quitting lyrium. The effects were said to rival that of prolonged overuse: fever, pain, and above all nightmares that progressed into full-blown hallucinations with lack of rest. The only option, once lyrium had been taken the first time, was to keep ingesting it in small amounts at regular intervals. That way, the body held out as long as possible before inevitably giving way to the poison. Even so, templar lifespans were dramatically reduced once they started the lyrium regimen upon taking their oath.

Cullen had known all of this, and yet he had still decided to try to break his lyrium leash. Since the beginning, he had said that he would take the lyrium again if the withdrawal got to be too much, if he posed a danger to the other members of the Inquisition or their mission. And now, on this trip, he had proved himself a danger to both. He had attacked their Inquisitor.

Cullen’s eyes drifted to her back. She was riding ahead of him, swaying in time with her mount’s steps. Her golden hair was pinned up loosely, exposing the pale skin of the nape of her neck. His eyes wandered down her body, taking in the curve of her hips, the delicate way she balanced on her horse, how she lifted her hand to sweep a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

His heart beat faster. In every fiber of his being, he knew he would do whatever he could to keep this woman safe. Not just because she was his commanding officer and the leader of their order, but because she was herself. Proud, strong and powerful, yet at the same time graceful, empathetic and kind. She was beautiful in every way. The very best person he had ever met.

Cullen loved her. And sometimes, love required sacrifice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Things are progressing. The glacier might arrive in just like... one or two more chapters. It's been a long time coming, but I think they're almost ready.
> 
> Leave kudos - or, even better, a comment! - if you enjoyed this. My humblest thanks to anyone who's read this. It means a lot to me. <3


	25. Reflection

His fingers squeezed around the vial with such intensity it was surprising the slender glass didn’t fracture.

Was he really going to do this?

Getting his hands on the lyrium had been surprisingly easy. Lysette, one of the templars under his command, had been more than happy to lend her commander a vial when he had told her he’d misplaced his supply. She had bought his lie with ease; none of the templars within Skyhold’s walls had been told of his attempt. The attempt that he had failed.

Cullen lifted the vial up to the light, gazing into the viscous blue liquid within. He could feel the lyrium calling to him, and his blood rushing toward it in reply. He imagined how it would taste on his tongue, how it would feel as the lyrium slid down his throat and finally gave his body what it had craved all these months. It was a feeling he had once known intimately; one that he had not allowed himself to admit that he missed. Raw power would surge through his veins almost immediately, washing away his pain, his fever, his nightmares and his hallucinations. But along with them, he would also lose part of himself, a part that would be replaced by the all-consuming need to find his next dose.

He flicked the cork of the bottle open with his thumb, wondering at how naturally the movement still came to him. It was like breathing. His muscles ached to pull the vial to his lips, to partake in the temptation he had been denying himself for too long. The smell of lyrium encircled him, cocooning him in the familiar blanket of its sharp tanginess, almost as if inviting him home. Cullen closed his eyes and took a deep breath, preparing himself to once again betray a cause he had taken for his own. The only thing that hurt more than the thought of doing so was the intense feeling of need coursing throughout his body.

“Put it down.”

The commanding voice from the other side of the room made him jump, and he had to scramble to keep from dropping the vial. The Inquisitor advanced on him, her eyes boring into his with enough intensity to make his knees tremble.

“Give it to me,” she ordered again, reaching out a hand towards the vial. His fingers curled tighter around the slender glass reflexively.

“I have to do this,” he told her quietly. “You don’t understand.”

The Inquisitor pursed her lips, her intense gaze still scrutinizing his face. “Then tell me.” Her tone was like iron, trapping him in place and bending him to her will.

“It’s the right thing to do. I need to do the right thing, for once in my life.” He sighed heavily, closing his eyes. He hadn’t wanted her to see him like this; so weak, so defeated by the task he had set himself. A stronger man might have prevailed where he could not. _She_ would have prevailed where he could not. “I’m not strong enough.”

“Cullen…” Her voice, so sharp and commanding before, surprised him now. It was soft, full of such affection it made his heart ache. He could feel the light touch of her fingers on his arm and opened his eyes to see her looking up at him. The pain painted across her delicate features gave him pause. He had never wanted to hurt her. He was doing this so he would never hurt her.

“Do you want this?” She finally asked.

“No,” he admitted with a sigh. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

That surprised her. She withdrew her hand from his arm. “Cullen, you would _never_ hurt me.”

Cullen looked away, unable to meet her eyes as he confessed his sins. “I almost did. In the tent. I wanted… I thought I had to… I could have _killed_ you. I really thought you were the demon. I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell it wasn’t real.”

“I promise you that you cannot hurt me, even if you wanted to. Perhaps if you were on lyrium, but now...” Amalia reached up, placed her fingers on his chin, and softly pulled his face towards hers again. “I can keep myself safe. You do not need to do this for me.”

“And what of other mages? Fiona’s people, the Grey Wardens, the armorsmith’s little girl? They are not safe in Skyhold as long as I cannot control myself.”

“I know you, Cullen. You would never hurt anyone undeserving.”

“Except I would. I did. You don’t know… what I did, who I am…” The words came spilling out of him, unbidden, and suddenly the things about his past he had resolved to never tell her were out in the open. “I’ve tried to get an entire circle of mages killed. I’ve stood by while others have tormented and mutilated your kind. Only the actions of better men have stopped me from doing the same myself.”

His confession shocked her. She pulled her arm back and took a step away from him, the look in her eyes a mirror of the very reaction he’d feared his story would get from her. He looked away, unable to face her. Now she would hear it, everything he had done, the deepest darkest guilt he carried with him, and she would be lost to him forever. But it was too late to back down now. Cullen had to tell her.

“A maleficar took over the circle I was first stationed in when I got out of training. Demons… they slaughtered my friends. They all died. The mages, my brothers, everyone. I was spared; I don’t know why. There was no logic in it. They took me prisoner, and they tortured me... they tortured me for days… and when I was finally set free, I tried to force my rescuer’s hand. I tried to get them to annul the circle, to kill every mage inside, even though the ones responsible were already dead. I wanted them all dead. The innocent. It didn’t matter to me that they had done nothing.” The torrent of words came to an end, and an uncomfortable silence fell between them.

“You were young,” Amalia finally said.

“That’s no excuse.”

“No. But it is a reason. You were young, and you were broken. You reacted in a way that was… not the best, but you wouldn’t do that again. That’s not who you are anymore.”

“It wasn’t but a few years later that I stood by and watched as my Knight-Commander turned mage after mage Tranquil for the most minor offences, ordered my brothers to do horrible things to those under their power… and I didn’t stop them. I didn’t help, even though I could have. I carried out her orders like a good little soldier.” He spit out the last few words.

“But you stood up to her.”

“In the end. Only once Hawke showed me how wrong I had been. But it took me far too long.”

“But you got there, in the end.” Amalia moved back to his side and placed her hand on his arm. “Cullen. Look at me.”

Cullen’s eyes snapped to her face before he even consciously decided to meet her gaze.

“I won’t say you aren’t right to regret what you’ve done,” she said, her voice thick with barely suppressed emotion. To his astonishment, a single tear rolled down her cheek. “We’ve all done things we regret. It doesn’t bring back what was lost because of us… but it doesn’t mean we can’t forge something new and good from the ashes of our past. And that’s why you can do this. Why you _have_ to do this.” Her fingers found the lyrium bottle in his again, and this time, he let her take it. She tucked it away behind her back, out of his sight.

“I’m not… strong enough.”

“You are. You’re the strongest person I know.”

The statement was so comical coming from her lips that he snorted derisively, horrifying himself with such an inappropriate response.

She raised her eyebrows at him. “You are. If only I could…” Her voice trailed off. “Would you let me... show you?” Amalia lifted her hand from his arm, a shimmering silver mist appearing between her fingers. He hesitated and then nodded, and she placed her hand on his cheek.

Cullen’s eyes fluttered shut, and he suddenly found himself looking up at a fine-featured blond man, stubble covering his strong chin and a scar marring his upper lip. Was that… him? The confusion threatened to take Cullen out of the vision for a moment, but as the scene changed, he realized he was seeing what the Inquisitor had seen, feeling what she had felt, thinking what she had thought.

_ She was looking at him from across the war table. She could see his hands shaking and his eyes narrowed in barely concealed agony, yet he did not falter. He demanded to be taken along to find Samson and bring him to justice. There was a fiery conviction in his voice, a commanding air to way he met the gaze of everyone around him, defying their doubt of his capabilities. She felt a surge of anticipation quiver in her stomach, a sudden urge to reach out to him, to touch him, to hold him. _

_ She was on the ramparts of Adamant, watching him cry out to his men as they pushed forward through the ranks of the Grey Wardens. She saw the way his men looked to him for leadership, trusted him implicitly, and felt a surge of pride deep in her chest. _

_ Suddenly, she was in the Shrine of Dumat. She saw Cullen hurtle towards a red templar behemoth, fire in his eyes and a battle cry upon his lips. Gone was the quaking, shivering mess he had been just a few nights before. He was fierce and unwavering. Despite everything he was going through, he was so strong. She lifted her staff to cast another spell, realizing she had forgotten for an instant that they were in the heat of battle. _

_ The scene changed again. She saw him standing silently on the ramparts of Skyhold, clutching a small object in his hands. Cullen turned around, and she felt a jolt of electricity deep in her core as their eyes met. In the dark, the rings under his eyes were barely discernable, his pallid complexion washed clean by the moonlight. He stood straight, tall and proud. He was so handsome, she found herself thinking. Cullen smiled at her, eyes warm and inviting. She felt an answering smile spread across her face in response and a pleasant tingle run down her spine. She stepped toward him, her fingertips aching to grab hold of him and never let go. _

_ Again, the scene changed. She was in the courtyard of Skyhold, looking up at Cullen. He was standing so close. She could smell him, his heady scent of sun-warmed leather and pine needles. Her breath quickened, her mouth ran dry, and her eyes flickered over Cullen’s lips, finding the scar there… she took a step forward despite herself, hands reaching for his neck, aching to pull his face to hers for even a moment. He leaned down toward her, and she could see his eyes fluttering closed. She found her own closing in response, and tilted her head to the side, feeling his breath on her lips... _

Amalia’s hand left his cheek then, and, gasping for air, Cullen found himself back in his own head. He looked down at the mage, his eyes wide.

She smiled a little ruefully, shrugging. “When I look at you, _that_ is what I see. And what I see right here, right now, is you trusting a mage to cast a spell on you even in your darkest moment, despite having just relived the horrors you have seen at the hands of mages.”

Cullen swallowed, trying to wrap his head around what he had just seen. As he floundered for words, the Inquisitor spoke again.

“Do you trust me?”

Cullen nodded in reply, still dumbstruck.

“Then trust me when I say this: I cannot think for a moment that you are the same person you were back then. If you wish to start taking lyrium again, you are free to do so… but please, don’t do it on my account. I would see you win this battle. The mages are free, for better or for worse - it’s time for the templars to be free, too. And you can do that for them. You _will_ do that for them, if only you want to.”

Her fingers brushed lightly down his cheek, followed the line of his jaw, then across his lips and finally across the scar on his upper lip. He felt a trail of fire erupt on his skin where her fingers touched him. Amalia could clearly see him struggling for words, and smiled again, this time in understanding.

“It’s alright,” she said quietly. “I’ll… give you some time.” A smile still playing on her lips, she withdrew from him, and left the room. The door closed behind her, leaving him alone with his thoughts - and a brand new conviction to succeed in his quest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire reason I started this project was to really delve into Cullen's past and how he's coping with that, in addition to the lyrium. The romance comes as a nice side bonus.
> 
> Nice to finally get here.


	26. Revelations

The next day was long and arduous. Having finally retreated into his study in the evening after a long day of sparring and training, Cullen found himself stretching in his seat as he worked, desperately trying to dispel the exhaustion that was threatening to overwhelm him. The candle on his desk was burning low, casting long shadows across the cold, damp interior of the sparsely furnished study. He was behind on his work far more than was customary for him; he still had reports to finish for the following morning’s war council meeting. There had been other things on his mind. Unsurprisingly, the Inquisitor was one of the main sources of his distraction. Since she had caught him with the lyrium vial, Cullen had thought of little else than what she had said… and what she had shown him.

The Inquisitor had been right, of course, in suggesting that he owed it to the templars still trapped in the Order to break the hold lyrium had over him. If he could do that, he could show the others that they didn’t have to live their whole lives chained to the vile substance. He could be a force for good for the brothers he left behind. It was a chance to atone for his past sins, much like the chance the Inquisition had given him. 

Despite everything - the hallucinations, the fever, the aches, the cravings - Cullen knew he had performed his role as Commander better than those who could be sent to replace him. He had not faltered yet, except that one moment in the tent - that one moment that had frightened him into almost abandoning his mission. As loathe as Cullen himself was to admit it, it was a fear born more of his feelings for the Inquisitor than any failures in the line of duty. He had been terrified by the impulse he had felt to hurt her.

Cullen shied away from that line of thought, knowing that if he let himself think of Amalia his reports were unlikely to ever be finished. The visions the Inquisitor had showed him the other night had etched themselves in his memory, proving even more effective than his lyrium-induced nightmares at preventing sleep. He could still feel the way her stomach twisted when she watched him, and had recognized in it an echo of the way he felt when he was around her. All at once, things he hadn’t even dreamed of hoping for seemed possible.

The thought was as frightening as it was amazing. In the years since Kinloch Hold, his list of friends had grown thin, replaced by allies he knew only for their positions and their titles. His dealings with others resolved around duty, not affection. Here, in the Inquisition, he had made different kinds of connections - both with the Inquisitor, and, even more surprisingly, with other members of their order. People such as Dorian. Cullen chuckled to himself, the thought of the other man evoking a memory of earlier that same day.

The Tevinter mage had returned from his personal errand that afternoon, Cole in tow. The moment they had walked in through the gates of Skyhold, the Inquisitor had run up to them and given Dorian a glare potent enough to melt steel. But then, the Tevinter mage had nodded significantly to her - and she had thrown her arms around his neck in a rare public display of affection. Cullen had watched the scene from the training yard, too used to Amalia and Dorian’s nearly telepathic style of communication to waste time wondering about the reason for the Inquisitor’s strange reaction. 

As if called forth by his thoughts, Dorian chose that particular moment to burst in through the door of the study, snapping Cullen out of his reverie. In his characteristically showy manner, the mage swept across the room and placed a glass flask of green liquid on the desk. He sat down across from Cullen, all of a sudden very matter-of-fact, and looked at him expectantly.

“Dorian,” Cullen greeted the other man.

Dorian didn’t answer, just looked from Cullen to the vial and then back again. Cullen could see the mage’s lips twitching and his hands grasping the armrests of his chair so hard his knuckles were white. Dorian was excited, perhaps more so than Cullen had ever seen him. Intrigued, Cullen picked up the flask and peered into it. The thick, mossy green liquid within swirled at the movement, thick brown fibers floating in its midst.

“What is this?” Cullen asked, bemused.

“Well,” Dorian started, leaning back in his chair with bravado. “As you know, there isn’t much the fair Amalia doesn’t tell me.”

Cullen nodded hesitantly, a little wary at the direction this conversation was taking.

“So, I  _ know _ .” Again, Dorian looked at Cullen expectantly, then sighed at the blank expression on his face. “I know about how you tried to strangle our dear leader.” Dorian didn’t waste time phrasing his explanation delicately, and Cullen winced internally at the reminder of his shame. As he opened his mouth to reply, Dorian raised his hand to quiet him and continued speaking. “I suppose it comes down to this: I don’t have many friends. I do not make them easily, nor do I often meet people with whom I’d even attempt the process. I want to take care of the ones I do have. I… I don’t say these things often, so please don’t make too much of this - but I count you among that small number, and, both for your sake and Amalia’s, I wanted to do what I could to bring you both some happiness.”

Cullen opened his mouth, then shut it again, unsure of what he was supposed to say. He looked at the elixir in his hand, and his mind finally caught up with the situation. “Dorian, you  _ didn’t _ .”

“You’re right; I didn’t. Cole did.”

“How?” Cullen asked, stunned.

“It dawned on me that Cole is singularly talented at going unnoticed. He was able to sneak into the fortress, grab a few roots of felandaris and sneak back out. No harm done, no enemies alerted, nothing bad happened. Please tell that to the Seeker. She wants to flay me alive.” Dorian finally broke into the satisfied smirk he had been struggling to hide since he walked into the room.

“You make it sound as if it was nothing.”

“It  _ was _ nothing. The difficult part was what came after, the reason we were gone for so long. We wasted time looking for an alchemist competent enough to mix the tonic throughout Orlais and Ferelden, until I finally realized we had to go to the source of the knowledge. So we went to the woman who wrote the book.”

“You went to  _ Tevinter _ ?” Cullen and Dorian rarely spoke of serious matters. Even so, Cullen knew that the manner in which Dorian had parted with his homeland had not been a pleasant one - and that for him to return there was not without peril.

“As I said, please don’t make too much of this. Yes, I went to Tevinter. No, I didn’t want to go to Tevinter. Yes, I went there anyway. Don’t dwell on that. The important thing is what I learned there. The herbalist who came up with this extract has studied lyrium withdrawal, and she was kind enough to give me some of her research notes… after some  _ convincing _ .”

As he spoke, Dorian withdrew a crumpled pile of papers from the pocket of his lavish silk robe, placing them on the table in front of Cullen.

“There are studies on lyrium withdrawal?”

“Yes. We really should have looked to Tevinter for answers sooner. As obsessed with magic as they are, it’s no small wonder they’ve been dabbling with lyrium.” Dorian wrinkled his nose slightly, clearly disapproving of the notion. “Better late than never, I suppose. We know more now. When you ingest enough of it, any extra lyrium in your blood is stored in your bones. That’s why you’ve been feeling so awful. The lyrium in your bones has been returning to your blood, since the blood has been attempting to keep its lyrium level stable. Once all the lyrium is spent, your body should begin to function normally.”

“And the withdrawal symptoms will be over?”

“Ah, Commander, you’re not just a pretty face after all. In theory, yes. You may carry some residual cravings for the rest of your life, but the worst of it should be over then.”

“How long does this process take?” Cullen asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. He had nearly resigned himself to a lifelong battle against his symptoms - it seemed like too much to hope for that an end to all of this could truly be on the horizon.

“It depends on many factors. Your age, how long you’ve been on lyrium, how much you’ve been ingesting, all that. You’re older than most of the subjects the woman has studied by quite a large margin. Apparently, lyrium ingestion is mostly a children’s thing in Tevinter.” Dorian grunted deep in his throat disapprovingly. “And they come through it much quicker. You’ve been on lyrium far longer than most of the children she has studied have even been alive. Ten years or so, is that right? On the standard Chantry rations?”

Cullen gave a stiff nod of confirmation, wanting Dorian to get over his grandstanding as soon as possible and give him a straight answer to his burning question.

“Based on that, I calculated that it should take a year, give or take a few months, for you to come through it,” Dorian said, looking more pleased with himself by the minute.

Cullen couldn’t believe his ears. At this point, he had been off the lyrium for eight months. Could he really be over halfway through this? “Are… are you sure?”

“Of course not, but I think we’d be hard-pressed to find any other trustworthy sources on this subject. Not even Tevinter magisters are crazy enough to ingest lyrium on a scale as large as your Chantry and its templars.” Dorian delivered the snipe with a sly smile, but Cullen was too absorbed in what he had just heard to react. When they had been quiet for a moment, Dorian raised his eyebrows and looked at Cullen. “You haven’t even asked about the felandaris yet.”

Cullen had been twirling the flask in his fingers, deep in thought. Truth be told, he had forgotten the importance of what he was holding. “Does it work?”

“It binds to your bones, slowing the uptake of lyrium into your bloodstream. It’ll take longer for your body to be free of the lyrium entirely, but the symptoms should be far more manageable.”

“How much...?”

“We have this one flask mixed by the herbalist and ten roots. I have already given Dagna the instructions the herbalist gave us, and she seems confident she can mix more extract should the need arise. All you need is a sip every day. Any more than that, and you’re risking going blind, bald and other things that would make you blush if I spoke of them. Take your first sip now, if you please. Dagna has asked me to monitor you when you first ingest, just in case.”

Cullen could hardly believe his ears. Just like that, his trials could be over. He could have his head to himself again; no more demons, no more nightmares, no more fever, no more pain. It seemed too good to be true. Obediently, he uncorked the flask and brought it up to his face. The smell of the elixir was nauseating, like mushrooms on a rotting log, musky and damp and woody all at the same time. Cullen closed his eyes, brought the flask to his mouth and swallowed. Only the practice he had of ingesting lyrium kept him from gagging.

Dorian watched him like a hawk. Thirty seconds passed, during which Cullen attempted to keep the vile mixture down, and Dorian kept his eyes trained on his throat as if afraid he might choke. Finally, Dorian sighed in relief. “It seems to be fine. Apparently, some people have an immediate bad reaction. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” Cullen managed to croak, his throat still constricted around the revolting taste. It was true. The effect of the potion had been almost immediate. Cullen could feel a flush of warmth across his skin, washing away the chill of his fever. His head, which had been pounding, was suddenly painless. Cullen cleared his throat before speaking. “Thank you, Dorian,” he said, voice steadier now.

“You can thank me by finally doing something about your… situation.” Again, a sly smile flitted across Dorian’s handsome features - and, again, Cullen was perplexed by his friend’s cryptic statement. The mage sighed, seeing another explanation was in order. “You know, the fact that you’re in love with our venerated leader.”

“I don’t… I…” Cullen’s face flushed beet red at the direction the conversation had suddenly taken.

“You’re wasting both our time by denying it, Commander. Everyone who spends any amount of time around the two of you knows.” Dorian’s smile had turned into a haughty smirk. “We’ve had a bet going on for a few months now.”

“A  _ bet _ ?!”

“Yes, a bet. Gambling. I assume you’re familiar with the concept? I’ve lost a larger sum to Varric than I care to admit. I’d rather not lose again, so if you could be a dear and hurry things along, it would be most appreciated.”

“Does the Inquisitor know?” Cullen asked hesitantly, unsure if he wanted to know the answer to his question.

“About what, the bet or your feelings? She definitely knows about the latter, and I doubt we’ve been suave enough to keep her in the dark about the former. She always gives us such disapproving glances when she sees us exchange coin.”

“She  _ knows _ ?!” Cullen felt like all the air had gone from his lungs. His stomach was churning and his pulse pounding in his ears as he thought of the implications of what Dorian had just revealed. 

“Are you just going to keep repeating what I’m saying? That not really conducive to a good conversation. Of  _ course _ she knows. She’s not quite as unobservant as you are in that regard.” Dorian pointedly looked from Cullen’s red face to his hands clutching the edge of his desk, then raised his eyebrows sardonically. “You really ought to calm down. This conversation may just be the best thing that has ever happened to you.”

“I feel as though it may be the  _ last _ thing to ever happen to me,” Cullen muttered in response, the sense of sarcasm that his friendship with Dorian had brought out in him bubbling to the surface in his state of supreme discomfort. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself - Dorian was right, he needed to calm down.

Dorian chuckled. “That would be a shame, since you’d be missing out on quite a bit. I am honestly surprised she hasn’t acted on the situation yet. It’s why I keep losing to Varric, damn him. You should just  _ hear _ Amalia’s designs on your person.”

“I… what?”

Dorian raised his eyebrows again. “On second thought, it might be better if you  _ didn’t  _ hear. She thinks you’re afraid of her, and the expression on your face right now would not help convince her otherwise. Is it because she’s a mage, or just because you don’t know what to do with a woman?” Dorian asked snidely and paused, clearly expecting a response.

“It doesn’t make a difference to me that she’s a mage,” Cullen ignored the jibe, his voice quiet and mind reeling. This was a lot of information to get in just a few minutes of conversation. He had gone from disbelieving to elated so many times he had lost count, but as his thoughts caught up to the situation he found himself finally able to settle on a feeling. There was a pleasant ball of anticipation warming the pit of his stomach and a slight fluttering sensation prickling in his chest.

“There we go, then. If I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion: you should tell  _ her _ that. It’s the only thing keeping her from speaking to you about this subject, and I’m tired of losing money.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen exhaled the words, trying to untie the tangle of thoughts running rampant through his mind. “So she… she feels the same?” So many times he had imagined this moment, and yet nothing had prepared him for the rush of feelings coursing through him.

“I’ll take that as your official admission of guilt. And yes, she does.” 

Cullen’s mind thrilled at the words as Dorian spoke them. Three little words strung together to shake the very foundations of his life.  _ Yes, she does.  _ An unwitting smile formed on Cullen’s face, the warmth in his stomach seeping through his body, lighting a trail of fire through his veins. 

“I take it from your expression that this is pleasant news?” Dorian chuckled, having watched the play of emotions on Cullen’s face with growing interest.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen repeated. “I hadn’t thought it was possible.”

“I’m as surprised as you are,  _ believe me _ ,” Dorian sighed with another smirk. He looked Cullen up and down in an exaggerated fashion before nodding slightly. “But you’re handsome enough in a Fereldan kind of way, I suppose. And even if you are a bit slow on the uptake, you’re strong enough to keep up with her, and you respect her enough not to try to stand in her way when she does what needs to be done. And, with the felandaris extract, I’m hoping you won’t try to attack her anymore, either. Not that you have any chance of actually _ hurting _ her.” 

Dorian’s face turned serious again as if something had just occurred to him. “If you’re not sure about it, leave the matter be. She needs someone steady in her life now. Only let her hope if you can be that for her. I won’t let her lose anyone else.”

The intensity of Dorian’s gaze startled Cullen into concentration. “She won’t lose me. She never could.”

Dorian nodded, approving of his fervent tone. “So I thought. Good.” The mage’s face twisted back into its regularly scheduled smirk. “What are you going to do, then? I would suggest acting before Blackwall has a chance to do so.”

“Blackwall?”

“You didn’t think you were the only one to notice the Inquisitor’s charms, did you? Don’t fret; she only has eyes for you. That hairy lummox…” Dorian shivered delicately, displaying his opinion of their comrade in arms. “No, no, he wouldn’t do at all. Can you imagine?”

“I prefer not to.” Cullen’s voice was strained. He couldn’t ignore the frantic beats of his heart at Dorian’s words:  _ she only has eyes for you _ .

Dorian laughed, heartily this time. “As do I, dear Commander.”

They were quiet for a moment, Dorian clearly deciding to give his friend a moment to gather his thoughts. Cullen did so, and found they centered on one thing: “I have to talk to her, don’t I?” His stomach was trying itself in knots again at the thought of that particular conversation.

“I would say so, yes.”

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen generally tried not to take the Maker’s name in vain, but this situation seemed to call for it. “What should I say?”

“I’m sure something will occur to you. Though perhaps it is less of a matter of saying, and more of a matter of…  _ doing. _ ” Dorian lifted his eyebrows suggestively, and all the color Cullen had just managed to coax off his cheeks flushed right back.

Dorian rose to leave, clearly deciding his work was done. His hand on the door, the mage turned around for one final quip: “Oh, and, Commander?” Cullen looked up to meet his gaze, having been staring at his hands, lost in thought. “Don’t tell Varric we had this conversation. I won’t get my money back if he finds out.” With a final smirk, the mage ducked out of the door and closed it behind him.

It wasn’t long until Cullen pushed himself to his feet as well, feeling as if his stomach had been left behind on the chair. He would lose his nerve if he thought about this for too long.

He had an Inquisitor to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title of chapter: Dorian Says What We're All Thinking
> 
> *flails around wildly*
> 
> Finally getting down to business.


	27. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was literally too excited to finally be writing this chapter to stop. So like. Yeah. It's what we've all been waiting for. For about 65k words. I know; I'm sorry.

Cullen found the Inquisitor in the training yard, hurling herself at a training dummy. The darkness of the courtyard was illuminated only by the mage’s ethereal sword, a golden glow that came and went as the sword blinked in and out of existence. Cullen stopped at the gate of the training yard to watch, mesmerized by the sight. Amalia’s style was crude and feral, the way she swung at the dummy revealing she had little to no formal sword training. Still, anyone could see from the way she moved that for all her faults she was effective in battle. The slight blue shimmer of an active barrier clung to her body as she lashed out again and again, preventing her lack of finesse from being her undoing. Being hit through a barrier was more a nuisance than a hindrance in a real battle.

Cullen took a deep breath and stepped forward into the yard. The slight footfall on the cobblestones alerted Amalia to his presence, and she spun around. The sword in her hand winked out of sight, and they were plunged into darkness.

Gathering his nerve, Cullen opened his mouth, starting with a subject he felt more comfortable with than the one he had actually come here to discuss. “Your technique is… interesting.”

“Oh, it’s you. Would you mind it if I gave us some light?” Amalia’s breathless words echoed through the darkness. Cullen murmured softly in agreement, and with a snap of the mage’s fingers a magelight appeared behind her, encircling them in a halo of pale light. Cullen could see Amalia was breathing hard, her eyes lively from exercise. Her cheeks were flushed even in the muted glow of the magelight, her chest rising and falling in a way that necessitated him reminding himself to keep his eyes on her face.

“I didn’t mean to disturb,” he said quietly, loathe to disturb the hush of the sleeping keep around them.

“You didn’t. I was just practicing. As you so aptly stated, I’m in need of it,” Amalia replied, mimicking his quiet tone. A small smile played upon her lips. “Vivienne has been teaching me some new tricks. I’m not quite sure I’ve gotten the hang of the spirit blade yet… I’ve never fought with weapons before. Not that this really counts as fighting with weapons, I suppose.” 

Cullen chuckled. “I could help you, if you’d like?” He offered earnestly, 

Amalia looked at him for a moment, an expression he couldn’t quite place on her face. “You don’t need to do that. I can understand why being around my casting could be... distressing for you.”

“I don’t… I mean, I haven’t... “ Cullen sighed, his hand reaching up to rub his neck reflexively as he scrambled for words, knowing but not quite ready for the fact that what he would say next would lead up to the conversation he had come here to have. “It doesn’t bother me that you’re a mage. Not anymore, I mean.”

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow at his phrasing, and Cullen’s cheeks flushed red.

“Maker’s breath. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. I just wanted to say… I trust you. I don’t… I don’t fear magic when I’m with you.” Cullen bit his lip to stop himself from rambling any further. The words he truly wanted to say to her were so perilously close to the tip of his tongue he could almost taste them, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Amalia stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, then lifted her hand to produce the shimmering golden blade. A faint hum of magic filled the darkness around them. “Seeing me cast with your own eyes doesn’t put you on edge? It’s one thing to  _ know _ I’m a mage, another thing entirely to see the proof of it.” She swung the sword back and forth a few times, proving her point.

To his credit, Cullen didn’t flinch at the sudden appearance of the magical weapon. Very deliberately, he stepped a few feet closer to Amalia, his eyes intent on her face. “No,” he said, the statement ringing with truth. In fact, the few times she had let him see her cast, Cullen had found that he had come to appreciate the sight. There was something almost sensual about seeing Amalia at the height of her power, so natural and effortless as she twisted the elements around her to create the otherwise impossible. When it came from her, magic didn’t seem dangerous to him. It had become a thing of beauty in his eyes, just as everything about her had.

Amalia’s answering smile was so radiant it took his breath away. She dropped her hand, and the sword in it disappeared, leaving them standing in dim halo of magelight once again. 

Cullen took a deep breath, preparing himself to bring up the subject he was desperate to both avoid and discuss in equal measure.  _ I trust you. I want you. I need you. I love you.  _ A blur of thoughts danced around his mind. Before he could form a complete sentence out of the chaos, she spoke. Her voice was even quieter than before, and he could have sworn he heard some hesitation in her tone.

“Will you come up to the battlements with me?”

“O-of course, Inquisitor.” As soon as the word escaped his lips, he chided himself for using her title. His nerves had, once again, gotten the better of him.

To his surprise, Amalia didn’t react with her usual annoyance at his apparent unwillingness to use her given name. A smile still on her lips, the Inquisitor walked closer to him and took his hand. Her hand, small enough to be enveloped by his in its entirety, felt soft and warm in his calloused palm. His pulse pounding so hard he was surprised she couldn’t feel it, Cullen trailed behind her as she led him up the nearest stairway to the very top of Skyhold’s walls. The magelight floated behind them, lighting their path to the battlements before blinking out of existence just as they reached the top. 

A sliver of a new moon had risen over the horizon, casting a pale silver glow over Skyhold. The Inquisitor dropped his hand and walked up to the very edge of the wall. She leaned back, took a deep breath and looked out at the world falling away below them. “I think this is my favorite time in Skyhold, when everyone is asleep. It’s so peaceful. I can almost forget the reason I’m here, the lives that depend on me. I can just… breathe,” she said quietly. Her hair, which he had only ever seen loose once or twice before, cascaded down her back in loose curls. It gleamed like spun silver in the moonlight, its golden color drained by the faint white light of the night sky.

Cullen moved up to stand next to her, the words he had been preparing in the courtyard below taken from him by the sight of her so unguarded. It was so rare to see her so soft and open, completely dropping the mask of Inquisitor that she nearly always wore. She was just herself… just Amalia. And so heartbreakingly beautiful.

She turned to him then, catching his gaze with her own. He stared into her eyes, the fire deep within them burning golden despite the colorless night. “Did you want to speak with me about something?” she finally asked, breaking the silence that had fallen.

“I did,” Cullen said, taking great care not to stammer despite the cold sweat rising on his palms and the tingling sensation running up his spine. He knew from the warmth on his cheeks that they were bright red, a fact hidden mercifully by the kind lighting. 

They stared at each other for another long moment, Cullen trying to gather his faltering courage. Before he could do so, she spoke again, in the same, unsure voice he had first heard from her in the courtyard below. The measured uncertainty of her words sounded almost alien on her tongue. “I think… I think I know why we’re here. And there is something I’ve been wanting to say to you for a while, as well. I think it would be… easier for you… if I spoke first.”

Cullen froze, the fluttering feeling in his chest intensifying. He could barely hear her next words over the sound of his own heartbeat. He scarcely dared breathe for fear of missing what he desperately hoped she was preparing to say.

“Cullen, I… I’ve come to care for you. As a friend at first, but recently... as something more than that. I realize that my being a mage is difficult for you, and I’ve not said anything because of that. But, now… these past few days... I can’t help but wonder if there was any way you could see past that. Think of me as… something more.”

“I could. I mean, I do. Think of you, that is.” Cullen knew he was rambling, but he couldn’t seem to bring his mouth under control. Though what she told him was nothing new after his conversation with Dorian, hearing the words spoken in her voice, to him, was enough to make his heart hammer in his chest like it was about to burst. “I think of… I think of you. A lot. And what I might say in this kind of situation.”

There was a silent question in her eyes as she searched his gaze, then turned away to look at the scenery below them. For the first time, Cullen could see she felt as he did: wanting something that she never thought could come to pass, too afraid to make her feelings known lest she lose what little she already had. Filled with a sudden desire to calm her fears, to let her know she hadn’t made a mistake in speaking out, he reached out to take her hand and continued speaking.

“Maker, I can’t seem to say this right. It’s just… You’re a noble. You’re the Inquisitor. You’re  _ my _ Inquisitor, my superior. We’re at war. And, I… I have no title beyond the Inquisition. I shirked my duty as a templar, and I’m still… suffering the consequences of that. And yet, despite all that…” His voice trailed off.

“Despite all that, we’re still here,” she finished his floundering sentence. Her fingers twined themselves in his, and she turned towards him again, a self-assured smile more in keeping with her usual countenance ghosting across her face.

“So it would seem.” Cullen chuckled awkwardly. Her smile widened at the sound of his amusement. He felt his eyes drawn from her eyes, lower and lower towards her lips. The soft curve of them was half hidden by a stray lock of hair. He reached out hesitantly, sweeping the curl behind her ear slowly. His thumb stroked her cheek, marvelling at the smooth warmth of her skin against his. “I… I would like to… Would it… I mean, could I…?”

Amalia sensed his intentions and took a half step, closing the gap between them until she was pressed against him. One of her hands grasped the fabric of his shirt, the other wound its way around his neck. As if in a dream, moving more on instinct than rational thought, Cullen wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her closer by the small of her back.

“Yes,” she breathed, the fire in her eyes meant only for him drawing him closer to her like a moth to a flame.

Cullen leaned down, his eyes closing, and their lips finally met. A soft, careful touch at first, then parting for a single breath before coming together again for a deeper kiss. As many times as he had imagined this moment, nothing could have prepared him for the fire erupting within his very core at her touch. She was everywhere - her lips on his lips, her chest against his, their bodies melding together as one. His hand cupping the side of her face drifted behind her neck, and his fingers twined in her hair as he pulled her face towards his. He knew he wasn’t being gentle. At that moment, he didn’t care. He only cared about being as close to her as possible, about memorizing how she felt and how she tasted.

Their lips finally parted, but they stayed there, foreheads pressed together and eyes closed as they gasped to catch their breath. He still held her close in his arms, and he knew in that moment that he never wanted to let her go of her again. A stir deep in his belly finally compelled him to release her; he didn’t want to spoil the sweetness of the moment with anything more carnal than a kiss.

Cullen stepped back, the courage summoned by her lips against his seeping away as quickly as it had come. “Was that… was that okay?” His voice came out a breathless whisper.

“That was  _ more _ than okay,” Amalia replied, her voice matching his in breathlessness.

Cullen smiled at her words. “It seems… it seems too much to ask. But I want to. I never expected to find… this… to find you… here, of all places.”

“Seems as good a place as any.” She shrugged. She had regained her confidence, clearly the more comfortable of the two with displays of affection. “How long had you wanted to do that?” she asked after he failed continue the conversation, a familiar teasing edge to her tone.

“Much longer than I care to admit.” Cullen chuckled quietly, his hand finding the back of his neck. “It’s… only recently that I even dared to hope that, just maybe…”

“I don’t mind admitting,” she said, the corner of her mouth twisting up in a sly smile. “Do you remember the first time we were ever truly alone? We met on the battlements, on a night not unlike this one. It was not long after we first came to Skyhold.”

Cullen nodded, astonished. “Since then?”

Amalia laughed, a quiet, musical sound. “Dorian has been  _ quite _ vexed with me. Apparently, he and Varric have been engaged in some kind of betting venture, and I’ve been costing him a lot of money.”

“So he told me.”

“He did?” Amalia raised her eyebrows. “So that’s the reason you came to see me. I did wonder.” Her expression softened along with her voice, the memory of his discomfort at broaching this subject with her clearly passing through her mind. She stepped into him again, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her head in his chest. Cullen wrapped his arms around her in turn, pressing his mouth to the top of her head, inhaling her scent, lemons and mint and something he couldn’t put his finger on that was undeniably  _ her _ . She lifted her face to his, and he bent down to press his lips to hers once more, a soft and languid kiss to contrast with the hard and passionate one before. Her lips traced the scar on his upper lip. Cullen felt desire pooling in his belly once again and broke off their contact before she noticed.

“I would like it if we could spend more time together, Cullen,” Amalia said, her tone too casual to not know the effect her words would have on him. “You could help me practice my blade skills, as you so kindly offered. Or perhaps a friendly game of chess? Maybe in future, you won’t let me win,” she finished wryly.

Cullen grunted in amusement, surprised. “I... hadn’t realized you noticed.”

“You give me far too little credit,  _ Commander _ . I may not have been born a stellar general, but I learn quickly. Maybe you’ll allow me a rematch to prove myself - tomorrow, after the war council?”

That reminded him of something. “Oh, Maker. I still have piles of reports to finish for tomorrow,” he blurted without thinking, the thought coming into his mind and ruining his enjoyment of the moment.

Amalia laughed. “It’s good to know I haven’t distracted you from your duties  _ entirely _ .”

“Unfortunately, no. Though I... I would very much like you to.” 

“I take that as a challenge,” she said suggestively, and Cullen once again felt a flush of warmth in his cheeks. “But I can see when I’m beaten. As your Inquisitor, I can’t say I don’t approve. Reports over women.” She chuckled at her own joke before continuing, “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” She had clearly taken his words as a dismissal and turned to go. 

He could scarcely bare to see her go. Before she took one step, Cullen took her hand and gently pulled her back around to face him. He brought her hand up to his mouth, brushing a trail of kisses across her knuckles. “Goodnight, Amalia,” he murmured against her skin, eyes intent upon hers, then released her hand and let her go. 

She smiled at him, warmth in her gaze. “Goodnight, Cullen.” The sound of his name on her lips sent a pleasant shiver down his spine.

And then she was off, taking the steps down to the training yard two at a time and leaving Cullen to stare after her. His mind was curiously blank; the moment was over, and no demon had appeared. This had been real. The ramifications of the realization threatened to overwhelm him, though this time with pleasant emotion. Soon, he could feel the faint hum of magic in the night air as Amalia readied herself for a new assault on the training dummy, and he huffed quietly to himself. Clearly, he hadn’t distracted her entirely, either.

A smile on his lips, Cullen turned to make his way back to his study. He should at least try to prepare his reports for the morning, though he had an inkling that might prove difficult after the events of tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *FLAILING WILDLY*
> 
> I really need a beta. I also really need for someone to just swoon over Cullen with me. Swoon, guys. Swoon.


	28. Rumors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter beta'd by the wonderful @cipherninethousand. Thanks for your help!

It was no news to Cullen that rumors spread quickly through Skyhold. Despite that, the speed at which this particular one permeated the keep surprised even him. As soon as he stepped into the war room the next morning, he could tell by the atmosphere that both the other advisors knew what had happened. The women, who he had heard talking animatedly through the door, had fallen silent the moment he entered. Leliana watched him like a hawk from her usual haunt in the corner of the room, while Josephine sat on the edge of her chair, pink with barely controlled glee.

“So, Commander…” Josephine started, mirth bubbling under the surface of her casual words.

“Now, now, Josie. I’m sure the Commander will tell us  _ all _ about it when he’s ready,” Leliana coolly intercepted her friend, though with a mischievous glint in her eye that told Cullen she had burning questions of her own that needed answering.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Cullen said with as much dignity as he could muster despite his reddened cheeks. He placed his reports on the war table and took his customary seat at the other end of the room, carefully keeping his eyes on anything but the expectant gazes of his colleagues. 

Josephine laughed, and Leliana raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow with a sly smile. “Whatever do you mean, Commander? We only meant to inquire whether you slept well. You look positively  _ radiant _ this morning.”

“I did, thank you,” Cullen replied stiffly, knowing full well that there was another subject matter entirely that the women wished to discuss, but not being prepared to do so yet. Last night still felt surreal to him. He had woken up in the morning, barely able to comprehend that it had truly happened. Despite the convincing evidence of his colleagues’ excitement, it still felt more like a rare pleasant dream than reality. “How are our scouts doing in tracking down Samson?”

Cullen’s dogged determination to speak only of work made Josephine sigh in consternation, but Leliana mercifully complied and gave him the full report. It wasn’t good - so far, no sign of Samson and his red templars had been found.

“We do, however, have some exciting news on other fronts,” Josephine added, seeing Cullen’s face fall when he heard of the lack of progress on the mission closest to his heart. “Perhaps you would like to take the Inquisitor to a ball.”

“I… what?” Cullen was too confused to even be embarrassed by the insinuation.

To Cullen’s relief, the door swung open with a loud bang, sparing him from any further teasing by his ruthless colleagues. He looked up to see the Inquisitor sweep in, the slight flush in her cheeks indicating that she had hurried to get there. Her hair was artfully styled, pinned in bunches to the back of her head, the morning still so early that every last curl was impeccably in place. She was wearing a crimson cape over her loose-fitting white cotton clothing, and Cullen couldn’t help but appreciate how the color emphasized the rosiness of her lips. His heart thudded unevenly as his eyes drifted to those lips, and an unbidden smile spread across his face. A slight flush crept up his neck. He struggled to straighten his expression, but to no avail. Leliana’s eyes flickered to him surreptitiously, which made the ordeal all the more difficult.

“Ah, Inquisitor! I was just about to give a brief report on our latest success with the Orlesian throne,” Josephine continued without missing a beat, her tone becoming more formal in the presence of their superior. “We have been invited to a ball in Halamshiral, at the Winter Palace. Empress Celene herself will be presiding over the festivities.”

“You were going to report without me? I’m not very late, am I?” Amalia looked from Josephine to Leliana and finally to Cullen. A small smile curled the corner of her lips, and the flush rising up his neck reached his cheeks in earnest. Cullen looked away, pretending to cough. He could feel the eyes of the other advisors on him, and he could imagine the little glint of humor he would see in their eyes when he looked up.

“Not at all, Inquisitor. I beg your pardon. We merely got ahead of ourselves,” Josephine explained, tapping her quill against the clipboard on which she kept her notes. 

“The invitation to the Winter Palace is not only a political success, Josephine. After the dark future the Inquisitor saw in Redcliffe, we have been keeping an eye out for any possible plots against the Empress,” Leliana said. Cullen dared to look up just in time to see her finally take her eyes off his rapidly changing facial expressions. “We have reason to believe that an attempt on the Empress’s life will be made at this ball - it is being used as the backdrop for peace talks between the factions at war in Orlais. We must be there. We may be able to turn the situation to our advantage, somehow.”

“‘Turn the situation to our advantage’? Surely we intend to stop the assassination of the Empress?” Josephine turned to her friend, looking horrified.

“If it suits the best interests of the Inquisition, of course,” said Leliana. This did little to reassure Josephine, whose expression remained troubled.

“Do we know anything more about these assassins?” the Inquisitor asked.

“Among the guests for the ball are the Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, cousin of the Empress, and Ambassador Briala of the elves. Both have reasons for wanting the Empress… out of the way. I doubt either wants to see peace in Orlais under Celene’s terms. Still, they have accepted the invitation to join the peace talks. Either they are truly reconsidering their positions… or we must assume that the assassination attempt will come from either of these factions.”

“I don’t like  _ assuming _ when a matter of such importance is in question, Leliana,” Cullen said. The Inquisitor’s eyes flickered to him as he spoke, and, embarrassingly, his breath caught audibly in his throat in response.

Leliana smiled slyly at something other than the conversation at hand, her eyes looking from Cullen to the Inquisitor and back again before she answered him. “If we do not assume, we have nothing to go on. My spies have reported that there are whispers within both of these networks about taking the life of the Empress. If both of them are already planning her demise, it is likely one or the other will be behind the attempt.”

“Regardless of the origin of the attack or our reaction to it” - the Inquisitor’s words earned a sharp gasp from Josephine, but she continued as if she hadn’t noticed - “we must have someone keep an eye on the Empress at all times. Get us more information. We have to be prepared.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

“When is this ball?” This question was directed at Josephine.

“A month from now, Inquisitor. We have ample time.”

“Good. Assemble a list of Inquisition members to attend. Vivienne would love the chance to visit the palace again, and her skills in playing the Game would be most beneficial to us there, I believe. Cassandra should come along as well,” Amalia added with a wry smile, and Cullen guessed she was envisioning the Seeker’s reaction at being told she had to attend a formal ball. “The Orlesians will find her most  _ intriguing _ . I’ll also need Dorian and Cole. Dorian may prove a bit of a curiosity to the Orlesians, and we’ll need Cole’s skills if we are to seek out a hidden assassin. And, of course, all of you must be planning to attend as well.”

Cullen sucked in a horrified breath, though he had already known it would be his duty to attend. Josephine and Leliana merely nodded, having clearly already prepared themselves for the trip. “I will book meetings with the seamstress for all of our attendees - that includes you, Commander,” Josephine said in a tone that made it clear she had already made the appointments. “You know the Orlesians, Inquisitor. We will need to present ourselves in the best possible light to them if we are to secure the Empress’s assistance after the matter of the assassin is resolved.”

“Or anyone else’s that rises into power,” Leliana added softly, earning an indignant look from Josephine.

The Inquisitor nodded thoughtfully. “Tell me more about the dignitaries that will be attending. Duke Gaspard was the rightful heir to the Orlesian throne when Empress Celene succeeded, was he not?”

Cullen cleared his throat, trying to wash the disapproval from his tone before replying. “The very same man.” Cullen knew Duke Gaspard as a capable, high-ranking chevalier loved by his men. The notion of him being deposed by some political maneuver, despite having the heritage and skills to lead the country, did not sit well with him - nor did Orlesian politics in general. It all centered around what the Orlesians affectionately called “the Grand Game”.

His attempt to hide his disdain was unsuccessful. Leliana glanced at him sharply. “Orlesian politics work differently from Fereldan ones, Commander.”

“Clearly.” Cullen’s tone was dismissive enough to earn him a true glare from Leliana, whom he knew to have a deep-seated admiration for her native Orlesian culture and the Game that was deeply embedded in it.

“I haven’t heard of this Ambassador Briala,” Amalia continued, ignoring the bickering of her advisors.

“I’m not surprised, Inquisitor. She is a surprising envoy to invite to such peace talks - an ambassador in name only. She has organized the elves of Halamshiral into a crude underground army. They harass both sides of the civil war - it’s not quite clear what their intentions are, at least not to us. We assume the Empress wants her present at the peace talks to make a bid for the elves’ support of her claim to the throne against her cousin. Oh, and she is apparently a jilted lover of Celene’s.” The spymaster added the last sentence almost as an afterthought, though by the tone of her voice it was clear she placed no small importance on the fact.

Jilted lovers, civil wars and underground armies. “And this is the mess we’re to walk into?” Cullen sighed, rubbing his neck. Orlais was a deathtrap at the best of times - to walk in there now felt tantamount to a death wish. “How are we to make an ally of Orlais in the midst of this… chaos?” His eyes fell on the Inquisitor despite himself. For the first time, he found himself glad to be going to a ball. He would be there at her side as she faced the unknown assassins… and the even more dangerous political intrigue of the Orlesian court.

“By ensuring that the throne is taken by the candidate whose rule would be most beneficial for the Inquisition, Commander.”

“We are talking about the fate of an entire nation, Leliana. We cannot be solely concerned with the Inquisition’s best interests here,” Josephine said, reprimand clear in her voice.

“The Inquisition’s best interests are the best interests of all Thedas,” Leliana replied coolly.

Amalia held up her hand to silence her advisors just as Josephine opened her mouth to retort something, fire in her eyes. She had clearly had enough disagreements for one war council session. “Enough. We have over a month to decide our course of action. We have more pressing concerns. Leliana, tell us about the movements of our spies.”

The advisors quieted down, and the rest of the war council was spent in the usual fashion of going through reports and deciding on scout movements. Cullen found himself distracted, torn between gazing at the Inquisitor and thinking about the situation in Orlais. Josephine was right, of course, that it would be dishonorable of them to be aware of an attempt on the Empress’s life and do nothing to stop it. On the other hand… an Orlais with a competent military commander such as Gaspard at the helm would be a greater threat to Corypheus than one led by Celene.

When the Inquisitor finally brought the council meeting to an end, Josephine marched out of the room almost immediately, followed closely by Leliana. Though the women were fast friends, they often disagreed when it came to matters of the Inquisition. Cullen sensed they had a few trying days of bickering ahead of them before the spymaster and ambassador decided to disagree gracefully and let the Inquisitor decide the best course of action. He had seen this scenario play out too many times to count.

Lost in thought as he was, it didn’t occur to him that he and the Inquisitor had been left alone in the war room until he head her clear her throat behind him. He spun around to see her watching him, a teasing smile on her lips.

“Something on your mind,  _ Commander _ ?”

In that instant, Cullen found his mind devoid of all rational thought. “Not at all,” he replied honestly, grateful to find that his voice didn’t shake. “Leliana and Josephine seemed to be very knowledgeable about… you know… last night.”

“Dorian knows, and I’m sure he’ll have told Varric. Which means… everyone knows.” Amalia seemed amused by the notion. She shrugged, but then her expression turned more serious as she thought of something. “Does that… bother you?”

Everyone knows. And Amalia didn’t seem to mind. “I don’t… I mean, I hadn’t…” Cullen had to physically stop his rambling by biting his lower lip in order to gather his thoughts. “Of course not. I’m just… All of  _ this _ is quite new to me, and with your family and your place in the Inquisition, and  _ me _ ... I don’t want to cause you undue trouble.”

She crossed the room to him before he had even finished talking. Cullen swallowed, his mouth running dry. Somehow, it had been easier to face her in the dead of night, with the quiet keep around them. Here, in the war room, with the sunlight shining in their faces and the voices of various Inquisition members drifting in through the open window, everything suddenly felt real in a way last night hadn’t - almost  _ too _ real.

Amalia could clearly see his discomfort. She smiled in a way she must have thought was reassuring, but which only served to set his heart pounding even faster into his ribs. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she could hear it. “Just this one thing in my life doesn’t have to have anything to do with the Inquisition,” she said quietly, her eyes searching his. “And as for my family… well, let me deal with them.” Her tone was carefully dismissive, but Cullen knew her well enough to detect a note of apprehension behind her words.

“Besides, it’s not like we’ve done anything… irreversible. Yet.” She cocked an eyebrow suggestively.

Cullen flushed, earning a chuckle from the woman beside him.

“Just trying to diffuse the tension, Cullen,” Amalia continued lightheartedly. “But I am serious. There is no need to worry about my family - or what anyone else says. I doubt anyone in the Inquisition would begrudge us a bit of happiness in between all of this. Varric is right, you know - you should relax a little.”

“Your… teasing… really doesn’t help. Maker’s breath. I do not need any more reasons to get flustered around you.” Despite his words, Cullen’s rigid posture relaxed somewhat. He was gladdened to see the Inquisitor could stay composed after the events of last night, even if he could not.

Amalia lifted her hands up in resignation, a sly smile still clinging to her lips. “Alright, alright. How about a game of chess in lieu of apology? You did promise you’d give me a chance to prove myself, after all.” 

“So I did.” He gave her a tentative smile as he attempted to will the blush off his cheeks, and an answering one broke out on her face in response. She took his hand, and he squeezed her fingers in his, marvelling not for the first time at how dainty she actually was. The feel of her warm, soft hand invoked memories of last night, how easy and effortless and wonderful the contact between them had been. And, more than anything, her skin against his brought back her words from last night:  _ Cullen, I care for you. _ She felt for him as he did for her. If that thought didn’t give him courage, nothing could. 

Cullen looked down at her, capturing her gaze with his own and gently pulling her nearer to him. “I’m… sorry. It’s been a long time since I’ve really… dealt with anyone on a personal level. I’m finding it harder to get used to than I would have thought.”

She seemed disarmed by his sudden honesty. Her eyes softened, the teasing light going out to be replaced with warm affection. “There’s no need to apologize, Cullen.” Her thumb rubbed small circles the back of his hand, almost as if she were calming a frightened horse. “You can take all the time you need. I’ll still be here.”

Amalia stood on her toes, reaching her free hand behind his neck and pulling his head down to place a gentle, chaste kiss on his cheek. The sudden surge of desire that coursed through Cullen at the touch of her lips surprised him with its intensity. It curled in his stomach, sending a shock through his very core and a tingle down his spine. Emboldened by the feeling, he wrapped his free hand around to the small of her back and pulled her closer to hungrily capture her lips with his own.

Amalia let out a small gasp of surprise, and he could feel her lips twist into a smile against his. When they finally broke apart, there was a faint pink tinge to her cheeks. “I think you’re better at this than you think you are,” she told him slightly breathlessly.

Cullen grinned at her, his courage sticking as long as her hand was clasped in his. At her suggestion, they moved toward the chess set in the nearby back courtyard. Cullen tried to pull his hand away as they passed other members of the Inquisition, but the Inquisitor only held on tighter in response and shot a commanding look at him from the corner of her eye. Cullen could feel his face grow hot at the stares and whispers that followed them through the halls of Skyhold. At the same time, a warm feeling spread through him - she wasn’t afraid to be seen  _ together _ with him among their people. The thought made him irrationally proud. 

When they got to the courtyard, Cullen was pleased to find it deserted. The chess board was already set up.

“I wanted to save us some time,” Amalia explained, seeing him eye the pieces in surprise. “I’m anxious to regain my lost honor.” Her earlier hurry when she reached the war room took on a whole new meaning. She had almost made herself late preparing to spend time with  _ him _ . He smiled at the thought. 

“I can tell.” Cullen chuckled softly, pulling out the other chair and helping the Inquisitor to her seat. She finally released his hand, allowing him to take the opposite chair. “So, shall we begin?”

“Only if you promise to give it everything you’ve got. Don’t go easy on me.”

“You have my word, Amalia.” The words came out more fervent than he had meant, but the Inquisitor nodded in approval. She gestured toward the board, and Cullen took the first turn.

The familiar routine of the game gave Cullen a focal point for his concentration, and he found himself relaxing by the second turn. It didn’t take too long for Amalia to flick her king down, her eyebrows knitting together in annoyance.

“You win,” she conceded.

“I know.” Cullen couldn’t stop a little smile from curling in the corner of his mouth.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Humor warred with chagrin for dominance over her tone.

Cullen laughed despite himself. “I am, rather. When I was younger, my sister would always win. She got this  _ incredibly _ stuck-up smile on her face whenever she knew she had me beaten.”

Amalia raised an eyebrow at him, looking at his lips in pointed silence for a moment. “Do you know where your sister is now?” she finally asked, changing tack.

“I would imagine she still lives in Denerim. I’m… not quite as good at keeping in touch as I ought to be, I’m afraid. She sends me cross letters every now and again, reprimanding me for not having written,” Cullen admitted sheepishly. “I last wrote to her when I decided to join the Inquisition.”

“You haven’t written to her after Haven?” He had expected Amalia to laugh at his words, but instead, her brow furrowed in distress. “She must be so… She’ll have heard about…” Amalia’s voice trailed off. They were quiet for a moment, Amalia clearly lost in thought, and Cullen thrown off guard by her unexpected reaction. It wasn’t long until Amalia’s expression suddenly cleared, and she added flippantly, “perhaps I should add writing to your sister to your list of daily duties.”

“Please, no.” Cullen chuckled, glad to find Amalia back to her usual self again, though still slightly taken aback. “But… I’ll write to her tonight. You’re right - I have been a terrible brother.” 

“Good.” Amalia’s tone was light, but Cullen could hear a deeper emotion bubbling beneath the surface as she continued, “I know I would want to know, if…”

Suddenly, it dawned on Cullen why she was so worried about his sister. She had lost her own - and he had known this. “Oh. I’m so sorry, Amalia. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to-”

Amalia interrupted him with a wave of her hand. “It’s nothing.” Her tone invited no further conversation on the subject, and they fell silent for a moment. Cullen shifted in his seat uncomfortably, mentally berating himself for having been so insensitive.

“Would you care for another game?” he finally asked, breaking the silence.

He was relieved to see Amalia smile. “Of course. Prepare the board, Commander!”

Their games continued, the awkwardness of the previous conversation soon forgotten. Amalia was soundly beaten by Cullen’s superior tactics three times in a row. On her third loss, she huffed in annoyance and flicked her king down with more force than was necessary, sending the little figure spiralling off the edge of Cullen’s side of the board. “I do  _ not _ like losing,” she declared as Cullen bent down to pick up the fallen king.

“You’re overly confident. Don’t make such rash decisions - think more than three moves ahead, and always keep a contingency plan for each possible move I could make.”

“You’re giving me advice to help me win? Doesn’t that go against the concept of being opponents?”

“Well, I am your  _ advisor _ , after all.” Cullen grinned.

“Low and behold, he makes a joke!” She laughed, her annoyed frown quickly melting into a smile.

The fourth game was also over in Cullen’s favor fairly quickly, but by the fifth, he had to work to capture Amalia’s king. She had clearly taken his advice on board. “You’re improving,” Cullen praised her as he finally managed to scrape a victory.

“Not fast enough,” Amalia complained playfully. “I’m starting to think Dorian has been letting me win as well.”

Having seen how poor a loser she was, Cullen could easily believe the Tevinter mage had taken the path of least resistance and thrown games in her favor. “I’m sure he hasn’t,” he hurried to assuage her fears, despite his private thoughts.

The Inquisitor cocked an eyebrow at him, seemingly sensing the lie. “I think that’s all the losses I can stand for one day,” she said with a sigh, toppling over one of her pawns as if punishing it for having lost the game.

Cullen felt a twinge of disappointment, but pushed it aside to smile. It wasn’t right for him to take up too much of her time - they still had a war to fight, after all. “Of course. We should get back to work.”

“It’s always work with you, isn’t it?” 

“I believe that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

Amalia smiled in acquiescence and stood up to leave. Cullen followed suit, and once again they met at the side of the chess board. This time, however, the movement was purposeful. Just as Cullen was about to take a step closer to her, a voice from the other side of the courtyard interrupted.

“Amalia, my dear! Leave that terribly interesting young man alone, and come practice your spirit blade! You’ve kept me waiting, and I simply must get to the rest of today’s agenda soon.” Vivienne stood by the door to the courtyard, her lips pursed and one hand on her hip. Despite her polite phrasing, her tone was laced with steel. Cullen suppressed a shudder - the imperious enchantress always unnerved him a little. He wasn’t sure he liked being called a  _ terribly interesting young man _ by someone not much older than him.

“Of course, Vivienne. I seem to have… lost track of time.” Amalia turned back to Cullen with a smile and reached over to give his hand a tight squeeze before moving off after Vivienne. The two mages disappeared into the keep, with the enchantress giving him a scathing look before closing the door behind them.

Cullen stayed behind, clearing the pieces of the chess set into their box before making his way towards the training yard. He was so absorbed in reliving the past few hours in his mind that he barely noticed the whispers and stares that followed him, even though he walked alone this time. He was snapped out of his reverie by a low whistle when he arrived at the training rings. 

Cullen looked up to see one of his lieutenants, Harvey, grinning at him.

“So, the Inquisitor, huh?”

Cullen shrugged. Keeping the blush from rising to his face took all of his willpower, but he was damned if he was going to give into it in front of his men.

“It’s true, lads!” Lieutenant Harvey called to the other men scattered throughout the yard, who Cullen now saw had turned to watch him intently. His words were met with whoops and jeers interspersed by a few wolf-whistles.

“That’s enough of that,” Cullen said calmly, though he couldn’t quite keep his stern expression from slipping into a small smile. Despite this, his men immediately quieted down. “Harvey, I want to you run six sets of drills with the melee fighters. Kevan? Where are you? Take the archers to the range. Ritter? You’re with me.” His men scattered across the keep, eager to obey their Commander’s orders.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Ritter, the templar he had selected to spar with, was a skilled fighter, and the two men grappled with each other with practice swords and shields for the better part of two hours before Cullen finally called a halt to the practice.

“Have you been… practicing… in secret... Commander?” Ritter panted, leaning against the fence of the training ring.

Cullen, also breathing heavily, wiped the sweat off his brow with a smile. It was true - he had fared better today than he had in a long while. Cullen felt more himself; though he didn’t quite have the lyrium-induced strength and stamina that he’d had as a templar, he wasn’t as feeble as he had been these past few months. It was all due to the felandaris. He had still slept poorly the night before, plagued by the usual nightmares, but the aches had lessened considerably, and he didn’t feel as feverish. All in all, the improvement in his condition had been dramatic.

Cullen released Ritter to participate in the last melee drills before heading off to his study, pleasurably exhausted after his exertions. He had half a mind to go straight to the washroom and then to bed - but he had made a promise. Cullen sat down at his desk, picked up his quill and a piece of parchment and started writing.

 

_ Dear Mia, _

 

_ I’m sorry. It has been a while; the Inquisition has kept me busy. _

 

_ I am good. In fact, I am better than I have been in a long time.  _

 

_ Led by Amalia, we are closer now than ever to closing the breach and securing the safety of us all.  _

 

_ I will try to write you again soon. _

 

_ Your affectionate brother, _

 

_ Cullen _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a more... domestic chapter this time?
> 
>  **Bonus:**  
>  I commissioned a work of Amalia from the amazingly skilled Leticia Figueroa (@beammetothemoon/@lfigueroaillustration on tumblr). Look at the PRETTY.  
> 
> 
> Yeah, IKR? Who wouldn't be smitten?


	29. Color

It was early in the morning when the Seeker stalked into Cullen’s study, a thunderstorm brewing over her head. “Commander,” she called as she banged the door open, the old and worn-down wood shuddering at the force of the blow. “Commander!”

“Seeker Cassandra.” Cullen looked up from his stack of reports, missives, correspondence and maps to greet her, too used to the force of the Seeker’s annoyance to be particularly disquieted by it.

“Have you seen the Tevinter?”

“Who?”

“Dorian. Have you seen Dorian?” Cassandra’s face twisted as if just the act of speaking Dorian’s name was enough to cause her physical pain.

“I have yet to see anyone today, Seeker.” Cullen looked pointedly out the window, where the sun had only just risen over the mountain range to the east of Skyhold, simultaneously slipping the letter that had been delivered to him from Dorian mere minutes ago under his troop movement map. As he did so, he justified the small deception to himself. His words weren’t untrue: he _hadn’t_ seen Dorian today. “Something I can help you with?”

“I gave him specific instructions to stay his hand, to not enter the keep to retrieve the felandaris. Not only did he disobey me, but he took Cole into danger with him. I told him there would be disciplinary action, and he disappeared. I have not been able to find the man for two days now.”

“Surprising,” Cullen murmured, unable to help himself.

“What?” The Seeker’s voice cut like a knife.

“Nothing.” Her tone reminded him of the debt he owed Dorian - the mage had gone out of his way to help Cullen, and antagonizing the Seeker would not help him mollify her.

Cassandra sat down on the chair opposite him at the desk, her breath quickened by anger and a red flush across her cheeks.

“If I may, Seeker…” Cullen gestured to the extract of felandaris, placed on a shelf near his desk. Her eyes zeroed in on the elixir, and Cullen reached over to retrieve it, handing it over to Cassandra for inspection.

She turned the flask in her hand, holding it up to the early morning sunlight to peer into its midst. Her brow furrowed, and she scoffed derisively. “ _This_ is what all the trouble was about? It looks disgusting.”

Cullen grunted in amusement. “I can’t say it tastes very good, but…” He held out his hand over the desk, illustrating his point. His fingers didn’t shake, and there was a healthy color to his previously sallow complexion.

Cassandra’s eyes widened. She looked from his hand to his face, her eyes moving from point to point on the mental checklist he supposed she had for keeping tabs on his condition. The signs he knew she would see were the same ones he had marvelled at himself just a moment ago, as he had glanced into a looking glass upon waking. The telltale dark circles below his eyes were much lighter, his skin had regained some color, and the constant sheen of sweat that had lingered over his skin for months now had all but vanished. The most dramatic change of all, however, was the expression in his eyes. Previously glazed over with fever, he now looked more like himself. The half-crazed, red-rimmed look of constant distress had been replaced by a look that reminded him of how he used to be. He looked like Cullen.

“So quickly?” The Seeker sounded disbelieving, as if wondering whether Cullen could have feigned these improvements just to stay her hand from punishment against his friend.

“Yes.”

“And the pain?”

“Manageable.” It was true; Cullen had only been taking one pain relief tonic in the evenings, down from the five or six he used to need every day. His pain had lessened to the point where it was only occasional, a momentary spasm of what he had previously endured. It wracked his body and took his breath away for a mere few heartbeats - but no longer was it constant. The soreness in his muscles was now more due to his renewed energy than anything else; after having been subconsciously avoiding unnecessary movement for so long, he had relished in walking, training, jumping and running unhindered these past few days. He was feeling the effects of that - but it was a pleasant soreness, not like the one brought on by his withdrawal. “The felandaris has worked… better than I had hoped. I think even Dorian was surprised.”

“Have there been any side effects?”

“None that I have noticed, Seeker.”

Cassandra scoffed, but her expression softened. She handed the flask back to him, and he placed it carefully back in the shelf.

“Fine,” the Seeker finally huffed.

“Fine?”

“Fine. You may tell Dorian that his insubordination will be… overlooked. Just in this one situation. He has done a good thing here,” she said, her brow furrowed in a way that made it clear that she was more than a little discontented by the words coming out of her mouth.

Cullen bit back a smile. “Of course, Seeker.”

Cassandra made as if to leave, but then seemed to remember something and sat back in the chair suddenly. “Oh, and I heard some… news. From Varric.” She crossed her hands over her chest, once again surveying Cullen’s face with hawk-like intensity.

It was all Cullen could do to keep the color from rising to his cheeks. Apparently, the news of his involvement with the Inquisitor was juicy enough to bring even Varric and Cassandra together in gossip. “Varric seems to have been speaking with a good many people about... certain matters,” he said, with as casual a tone as he could muster.

Cassandra clearly took that as confirmation of what she had heard; a curious smile ghosted across her face so quickly Cullen wasn’t sure he had seen it at all, to be replaced by a stern expression more in tune with her usual demeanor. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Commander.”

Cullen struggled to keep his voice from shaking. “Of course, Seeker,” he said, even as the opposite answer rang in his mind.

The Seeker continued as if she had not heard him. “I am not wholly surprised, of course.” Cassandra exhaled sharply, the accompanying sound halfway between a grunt and a snort. “I don’t believe anyone is. I would just advise caution as you… _proceed_.”

“We have… discussed the matter, Seeker. The Inquisitor has assured me she does not believe it will be a problem.”

The corner of Cassandra’s mouth turned up in a wry smile. “That does not surprise me, either. Amalia is certainly more than capable of taking care of herself. I’m… happy for you, Cullen. I believe this to be a good thing.” She spoke the words in a softer tone than he was used to hearing from her.

This time, Cullen couldn’t stop the blush from rising to his cheeks, and he looked away in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. He elected to nod in lieu of reply; there was a lump in his throat that he expected would make forming a coherent sentence impossible.

Cassandra had already risen out of the chair by the time he looked back at her. “I will leave it to you to inform Dorian of his pardon,” she stated, steering the conversation into more comfortable waters for both of them.

“Of course, Seeker.” Cullen turned back to his maps as he spoke, and soon he heard the door close behind Cassandra.

It didn’t take him long to cross the room to his cloak and drape it over his shoulders. Despite what he had told the Seeker, Cullen in fact knew exactly where Dorian was. The letter he had received from the mage by messenger this morning had revealed that he had been working with Dagna for the past few days, and they believed they had made progress on undoing Samson by reverse-engineering the tools Varric had found at the Shrine of Dumat.

Cullen headed out the door of his study towards the arcanist’s haunt. Autumn had arrived in Skyhold, first creeping slowly on the trail of the waning summer and then suddenly all at once. The few broad-leafed trees dotted between towering evergreens had turned brilliant shades of orange and yellow, and the omnipresent winds that howled through the keep sent more and more leaves fluttering to the ground with each gust. Even the air smelled of autumn, of fallen leaves trod underfoot and gathering pools of water in courtyards and gardens.

The keep bustled with activity around Cullen as he walked; the rapidly changing weather had jolted everyone into winter preparations. The cooks had set their assistants to gathering the mushrooms that had sprung up about the roots of trees, the blacksmith was busy shoeing the horses for the ice that would soon cover the ground, and the stonemasons still at work on restoring the keep were rushing to finish projects that would not be possible once the deep snows fell.

Cullen took a deep breath as he reached the main courtyard, enjoying the crisp, clean mountain air. He loved autumn, but he knew from experience that here in the Frostbacks it would be a short and muddy affair. As if called forth by his thoughts, he felt the first drops of rain on his head. He picked up the pace, but couldn’t outrun the sudden downpour.

By the time he reached the doors of the great hall, his cloak was sodden and his hair plastered to the top of his head.

“Hey, Curly.”

Cullen turned towards the greeting. Varric was sitting by the hearth near the great doors, warming his hands in the light of the blazing fire within.

“Good morning, Varric.”

“You look like a soaked Mabari.” The dwarf grinned and gestured to the seat beside him as he spoke. “You wanna come dry off? I swear this is the only warm seat in this entire keep.”

“If only I had the time.” Cullen sighed, wiping some droplets of water from his brow with the back of his hand. “I’ve a meeting with the arcanist and Dorian.”

“Oh, about the red lyrium?”

“You know about it?”

“Yeah. Amalia asked me to go with her tomorrow to ship more of the damn stuff back to Skyhold.” Varric rolled his eyes.

“ _More?_ ”

“Yeah, we already brought a few pieces back for Dagna a while ago. She wanted to study it, and Amalia thought it might help with the whole Samson thing.”

“There’s been red lyrium in Skyhold for _a while_?” Cullen didn’t like the idea of there having been red lyrium in the keep without him knowing. It was like bringing an enemy straight into their midst. How could Amalia not have told him?

“Oh. Right. _‘Don’t tell Cullen, Varric_ ’.” Varric chuckled. “I wasn’t happy about it either. Amalia said Dagna would take care of it. She’s weird, but since there haven’t been any problems, I guess she knows how to deal with that shit. Anyway, we’re lugging in some more starting tomorrow, so if you’re going to protest you should probably take it up with the boss sooner rather than later. You are in a pretty good position to do so, after all.” A sly grin spread across the dwarf’s face.

Cullen didn’t bother pretending he didn’t know what Varric was referring to. “Yes. I’ve been told I have you to thank for word getting out about… that.”

“No thanks needed, Curly. Best story I’ve had to tell in ages.”

Cullen didn’t feel the need to dignify the dwarf’s response with anything more than a grunt. He was slowly coming to terms with the fact that anything between him and the Inquisitor would be public knowledge… and if that was the price he had to pay, so be it. As it was, Varric’s teasing did not bother him half as much as it would have yesterday.

“I’d better be going.”

“See you.”

With that, Cullen moved towards the back of the great hall. Just before the gaudy, Orlesian-styled throne Vivienne had insisted Amalia accept from a visiting Orlesian noble, he turned right and entered the former cell block that now housed the Inquisition’s smithy and arcanist.

“Commander! We’ve been waiting for you,” a perky voice greeted him the moment he entered. “How has the felandaris extract been working? It’s really something, isn’t it? It’s just a potion, of course, which I think is far less interesting than an enchantment, but it is a very interesting herb. The alchemical properties -”

“If you don’t pause for even a moment, Dagna, our esteemed Commander will never get a chance to reply,” a good-natured drawl interrupted from the corner of the former dungeon. Dorian moved forward from the shadows, donning his usual smirk.

“Good morning, Dagna. Dorian.” Cullen inclined his head to the dwarven arcanist and Tevinter mage in turn before turning back towards Dagna. “The extract has been working very well, thank you. I’m told you’ve agreed to brew more of it should the need arise?”

“I did say I would, but I think Dorian will have to do it, at least to start out with. He’s much better at herbs than I am,” the arcanist replied, looking at the mage. “I’ll learn, of course. It’s not too hard; it is only alchemy, after all.”

“Well, that certainly puts me in my place,” Dorian said wryly. “So, Commander. Have you had a chance to speak with Cassandra yet? Does she still want my head on a pike?”

“She has instructed me to tell you that you are to be reprieved, but only this once.” Cullen chuckled quietly. “I would not cross her again, if I were you. We have no shortage of pikes.”

“In that case, let us hope she doesn’t give me reason to cross her. Then again, my head _would_ look absolutely dashing over the main gate.”

“So, can we get to the good part now?” Dagna was almost hopping in place, clearly eager to begin her demonstration. A shiver snaked its way up Cullen’s spine - he had almost forgotten he was here to discuss red lyrium… red lyrium, that was currently being kept under the roof of his fortress.

“We’re still waiting for -”

Dorian was interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open. Amalia swept into the room.

“Hello, love. You’re late.” Dorian regarded his best friend with a disapproving look.

“I know.” Amalia gave no further explanation or apology. Her eyes swept about the room to land on Cullen, and the corner of her mouth quirked up in a small smile. “Good morning,” she said, the words directed only at him.

Cullen swallowed the lump rising in his throat. His earlier irritation at her evaporated with just that one look. “Hello,” he managed to reply despite his suddenly dry mouth. Her eyes burned into his, and for a moment it was as if they were the only two people in the world. The urge to cross the room to her and take her in his arms was nearly too strong to resist.

Dorian looked back and forth from one of his friends to the other. “You two really are nauseating.” Despite his harsh words, his tone was soft with affection. “Shall we begin? Dagna, perhaps you should get out the red lyrium before they start taking their clothes off.”

Cullen cleared his throat and tore his gaze away from Amalia. The Inquisitor let out a small laugh and moved to his side, twining her fingers with his extraordinarily casually. He gave her hand a small squeeze in return, not trusting himself to look at her again. Instead, he turned to where Dagna had lifted a steel box inscribed with runes onto her workbench. He, Amalia and Dorian all moved closer.

As he got closer, Cullen’s skin started to prickle. He could feel the warped screams of the red lyrium through the thick metal of the box, an angrier, louder version of the lyrium song his body so longed to answer. He stiffened despite himself, and immediately, Amalia started rubbing small, calming circles on the back of his hand with her thumb. He looked at her to find her gazing at him. As their eyes met, she gave him a reassuring smile. Cullen, a slight tinge of pink rising to his cheeks, lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a quick kiss on her palm. He was somehow irrationally calmed by her presence.

Dagna produced an ornate key from the satchel at her belt, twisted it in the lock, and, with an ominous groan, the lid of the chest swung upwards. The silent screams of the red lyrium, now unhindered by the thick metal plating, tore into Cullen’s consciousness. His pulse quickened, his blood raced toward the lyrium, its screams echoed in his bones. Cullen took a deep breath to steady himself and instantly regretted it. He could taste it, a familiar mintiness laced with something putrid, like pools of blood slowly draining into the muddied earth after a battle. He clenched his teeth against the bile rising in his throat.

Dagna, too engrossed her project, didn’t seem to notice the lack of excitement in her audience. “It’s amazing, right? Look how it glows. I actually think it might even be able to communicate somehow. Varric told you that I found out it’s tainted, right? Oh, I guess he didn’t. Anyway, it’s alive.”

“Only living things can be tainted. If Dagna is right, and I believe she is, it would mean that lyrium is actually a living organism,” Dorian clarified.

“That’s… a very disturbing notion.” Amalia murmured quietly, still thumbing the back of Cullen’s hand in a rhythmic gesture.

Cullen was slowly bringing himself back under control, aided by the soothing warmth of Amalia’s hand in his. “Does this help us defeat Samson?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Dagna said brightly. “The Blight kills living things, right? I mean, if you get enough of the taint in there. I was thinking we could use that to overload the armor, maybe by way of a rune or something. It might not kill it, exactly, but I’m confident it would at least stun it for long enough.”

“What she means to say,” Dorian explained again, “is that we think introducing more taint to Samson’s armor could potentially shock it, at least momentarily. Enough for us to get close and capture him.”

“You want to throw _more_ red lyrium at Samson?” Cullen could hardly believe his ears. “This is insane.”

“Well, not exactly. We want to throw more _taint_ at Samson. But we will achieve _that_ by throwing more red lyrium at him, yes. Dorian has some knowledge regarding containing the taint, and we’re currently working on an application of that process to apply to a rune.”

“The method you and Alexius used with Felix?” Amalia asked quietly, and Dorian nodded.

Cullen, not knowing who Felix was, was none the wiser for the clarification.

His confusion must have shown on his face, for Dorian turned to him. “I had a… very dear friend. He was inflicted with the taint. His father and I did a lot of research, and we were able to slow down the progression of the illness. Contain it, if you will. Dagna and I are currently at work on a rune that would do the same, contain the taint but weaken it. Then, when it is activated, it would unleash the Blight upon anything that it touches.”

“This does not sound like a good plan,” Cullen said, even as Amalia nodded beside him, clearly approving of the idea. “This cannot possibly work.”

“After some preliminary tests, it seems to work very well!” Dagna exclaimed. “We’ve tried it. I meant to show you these pieces here” - she pointed to the other side of the box, and Amalia leaned over to peer into it - “which are the ones we’ve put more taint into. They seem to be inactive, for lack of a better word.”

“There’s no aura,” Amalia observed. She sounded mesmerized. “And they’re not glowing. I can’t even… I can’t _feel_ them. I usually can.”

“They don’t stay this way for very long. A few hours, a day at the most,” Dorian added.

“Is the result reliable?” Amalia asked.

“Quite. Every time we infect the red lyrium with enough of the taint, this happens.”

Cullen found he couldn’t look directly at the substance. “No. This is too dangerous.” After everything they had seen of red lyrium, how could they even be contemplating using it themselves?

“As dangerous as sending Amalia to fight Samson at the height of his power?” Dorian asked slyly, looking from Cullen to the Inquisitor.

“I didn’t mean -”

“Hush now. Of course, you didn’t.” Dorian smirked.

“Leave it, Dorian,” Amalia said, the soft warning in her tone effective enough to silence the other mage. She turned towards Dagna, finally releasing Cullen’s hand. “When do you think you can have a rune like this finished?”

“A few days after you get us the next batch of red lyrium, if we’re lucky. If we’re not, a few more weeks.”

“We’re usually quite lucky, though,” Dorian chimed in.

Dagna giggled. “Yes, we are. We’re very good.”

“We’ll leave to find that red lyrium first thing tomorrow, then. I want that rune finished so we can go after Samson the minute Leliana finds him. Will you join us, Dorian? Varric and Blackwall have already agreed to come.”

“As much as I would love to run off after you across the countryside, as our gracious Commander once so eloquently stated, I believe it would be better if I remained here this time. Dagna and I work well together. We’re making progress even with the few samples we still have left. You might want to take Cassandra. She may have forgiven me, but I think a few days on opposite sides of Ferelden might still be in order.”

Amalia chuckled. “An excellent suggestion.”

Plans made, the party broke up, with Dagna and Dorian staying behind to poke around with the red lyrium with an excitement that made Cullen’s skin crawl. He could tell that Amalia wouldn’t have minded staying behind to discuss the rune they were developing, either, but she followed him out of the dungeon nonetheless.

Before they walked out into the center of the great hall, she once again took his hand and pulled him to a stop, out of sight behind a pillar. “I’m sorry,” she said abruptly, before he had a chance to say anything. “For not telling you that I’ve been bringing back red lyrium samples for Dagna to study. I didn’t want you to have any more to worry about.” She explained, her tone contrite.

“I should have known. I’m in charge of this keep’s defenses, and I need to know what goes on here.” Cullen had to work to keep the irritation her words had brought back to him out of his voice.

“I know.”

“I would have told you not to bring that… _stuff_ here.”

“I know. We needed to learn more about it. This was the only way I could think of.”

Cullen sighed. “You’re right - and I’ve slept better not knowing about it. But you should trust me enough to be able to tell me these things.”

She smiled then, and his irritation melted. “I trust you as an advisor, a friend and… more than that. It was never about that at all. I really just didn’t want to burden you.” There was no doubting the honesty of her words.

“You cannot jeopardize the the Inquisition’s defenses for the sake of my sleep,” he said, his tone far softer now.

“That box has been spelled by Dorian, Vivienne _and_ myself, and Dagna has enchanted it specifically to keep everything put into it in… and everyone without a key out. It’s perfectly safe. I would not take risks with the safety of the Inquisition.”

“Alright, I’m reassured.” He returned her smile. “All the same... you’ll tell me in the future?”

“I will. I promise,” she vowed, perhaps with more fervency than the situation called for. Amalia moved closer to him, and he could see her intention spelled out in her eyes. Cullen was suddenly very aware of her hand still on his - as if on cue, she ran it up the length of his arm, her fingertips leaving a trail of fire in their wake until they finally twined into his hair. Cullen’s breath hitched in his throat, and he wrapped his arm around her to place it on the small of her back. Time seemed to stop; there was nothing but the two of them. No war, no Corypheus, no Inquisition. Just Cullen and Amalia, together, in this moment. She pushed into him then, backing him into the wall, rising on her toes and pulling his face down to hers to bring their lips together. He could taste lemons on her tongue and marvelled for a moment at the fact that he could do so. That of all the men she could have had with her here, now, she had chosen him. Given him a chance to know how she tasted, how she felt pressed up against him. His hold on her waist tightened, almost possessively. Her hands roamed his body - from the back of his neck, to his shoulders, down his chest and his stomach, her fingers slowly trailing lower and lower.

Cullen’s face flushed at the direction this was taking, and he broke off from her suddenly, breathing raggedly. “Amalia, I…”

“It’s okay.” She put a finger to his lips with a sly smile. “I’m sorry. I got a little… carried away.” Her fingertip lightly trailed across his mouth to find the scar on his upper lip.

“I can’t say I… didn’t enjoy it, but…” Cullen’s breathless voice trailed off in a chuckle.

Amalia laughed. Her hand trailed across his cheek to the back of his head, and she gently grasped the hair on the nape of his neck. “That’s always good to hear. I’ll let you get back to your work. I know it’s torture keeping you away from your reports.”

“Amusing.” His breath came steadier now, but his pulse still beat in his ears from how close she was.

“Dorian’s sense of humor seems to be rubbing off on you.”

“I’ve always had one - I just lost it for a few years. It’s coming back to me now.” He almost grinned.

“I’m glad.” She pulled his face once more down to hers, and their lips met for a brief moment before she released him and stepped back. “I really do have to get to work, though. I have to prepare to ride out tomorrow. I’ll hopefully see you before then, Cullen.” She turned to go.

“Amalia?”

“Yes?” She looked back over her shoulder.

“Come back safe.”

“Don’t worry; I always do.” She smiled at him once more before disappearing out of sight behind the pillar.

Cullen took a few moments to steady his breath and straighten his hair before also moving out from behind the pillar. A few of the people gathered in the hall leered at him, clearly knowing what had transpired between him and the Inquisitor mere moments ago, but he didn’t care. He headed down to the training yard, feeling happier than he had in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE COMMISSIONS! Oh my gosh. <3 This is by the glorious @pastelideas on tumblr. I absolutely love it. Amalia tarot card! <3
> 
>  


	30. Wounded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been a bit busy, hence the long(ish) time between updates! No worries, I have not fallen off the face of the earth again. I will see this thing finished.

Three weeks had passed since the Inquisitor and her party had departed Skyhold - and a week since the ones left behind had received word from them. _Unexpected problems. Will be delayed. Don’t worry._ The hastily scrawled note, penned in Amalia’s hand, had done absolutely nothing to reassure Cullen - quite the opposite.

 _Don’t worry._ As if that were possible.

Cullen drove his sword into the cushioned chest of the training dummy for what must have been the hundredth time that afternoon. He had taken to spending more time in the training yards with each passing day - both to make up for training lost during the worst of his withdrawal and to take his mind off all the horrible scenarios that had befallen Amalia in his imagination.

The distraction was an effective one; as he practiced parries, slices and cuts, he found he could almost enjoy himself. It was an unseasonably warm day for late autumn in the Frostbacks, the  afternoon sun burning into his skin through the leather of his training armor. The air in the keep was heavy and still, without even the slightest breath of wind to stir the heat. As a result, it didn’t take long until Cullen was breathing hard, sweat beading on his brow. He stopped to throw off his leather brigandine and, as he did so, relished the heavy feeling in his limbs. His light cotton shirt was plastered to his skin under the armor, but he didn’t mind. It had been a long while since his exhaustion had been for good reason. In the month since he had started taking the felandaris extract, the beneficial effects of the tonic had stayed constant. He was growing stronger every day and had even started to regain some of the weight and muscle tone he had lost during the past months.

It was not only Cullen who delighted in this fact. Dorian had taken to hanging around the training yard with him, making lewd remarks about his improving physique every chance he got. Knowing his friend as well as he did, Cullen could see through his ruse; the mage was only searching for a distraction, just as he was. The fate of the Inquisitor was a dark shadow in both their minds.

As such, Cullen was not overly surprised when he heard a familiar, drawling voice from the corner of the courtyard. “I hate to interrupt the show, but there’s been a raven for you.” Dorian was leaning on the stone wall of the keep, hands crossed over his chest and his signature smirk upon his features. As Cullen turned to him, Dorian lifted one of his hands to show the scroll clasped in it.

“Amalia?” Cullen could not keep the surge of hope from permeating his tone, only to be squashed by a nearly morose shake of Dorian’s head.

“It does not seem so. This has come from Denerim, and our scouts estimate that she is… elsewhere.”

Cullen threw down his training sword and crossed the courtyard to the mage, reaching his hand out to take the proffered scroll. Instead of handing it to him, however, Dorian grabbed the side of his head and tilted it roughly to the side.

“What are you -”

“How long has this been here?” Dorian’s brow furrowed as he nodded his head towards the side of Cullen’s neck. The collar of his shirt was rolled down, revealing the pale stretch of skin between his jaw and his shoulder - marred by an angry red streak of welts.

Cullen shook off Dorian’s hand and stepped back, pulling the collar of his shirt over the rash hurriedly. “Not long.” He had been trying to keep his mind off the rash since it had appeared a few days ago, first as just a harmless row of bumps. Cullen knew he should have told Dorian; he had been too afraid. Even as the rash had spread, had begun to ache and itch, Cullen had merely pulled his collar tighter around his neck and ignored it. Anything was better than the lyrium withdrawal symptoms that would once again attack his body if he were forced to stop taking the felandaris. A rash was nothing.

Dorian’s sharp eyes flickered to his face. “What happened?”

“It’s just a rash.”

“‘Just a rash’, he says,” Dorian muttered. “I thought we had agreed that you were to tell me if anything strange pops up after you started on the felandaris.”

“It’s nothing, Dorian.”

“Does it itch?”

“No.” Cullen could tell Dorian was not convinced by his assertions - the array of scratches covering the bumps, unmistakably caused by human fingernails, told a different story than his words. “Sometimes,” he amended.

Dorian opened his mouth to reply, but Cullen held up his hand to stop him. “I’ll let you know if it becomes a problem. I’m sure it’s nothing.” Before the mage could restart the conversation, he quickly changed the subject. “My letter?” Cullen held out his hand.

Dorian sighed and rolled his eyes before handing the scroll over. “I’m going to tell Amalia, you know.”

Cullen ignored his friend’s threat, his concentration now on the letter and the familiar handwriting with which his name was written on the outside of the scroll. His suspicions were confirmed as he ripped the seal open and skimmed over its contents.

 

_Beloved brother,_

_I am glad to receive your letter, though it surprises me greatly. We heard about the disaster at Haven, and only the fact that the Inquisition is on everyone’s lips these days has given us cause to believe you are still alive._

_If not for those rumors, we would have thought you dead. Not that that’s anything new. You must start writing more often._

_You sound… happy. I’m glad._

_I know it’s a fool’s errand asking you to stay safe, but I’m going to do it anyway. Stay safe._

 

_Love,_

_Mia_

 

_PS: “Amalia”? Not “Her Worship, the Herald of Andraste” or “the Inquisitor”? I expect to meet her soon. Your letter was far too short._

 

Cullen bit back a sigh. How was it that, even after all these years of limited contact, his sister could still read between the lines of his perfunctory letter to find the truth he had attempted to skirt around?

“Anything interesting?” Dorian was watching the play of emotions on his face with keen interest.

“A letter from my sister. We have not spoken much of late. The fault has been mine, and I have been attempting to rectify it.” His tone must have clued Dorian in on what had transpired to bring about this exchange of correspondence.

“Meaning Amalia forced you to write to her?”

“Well… Yes.”

Dorian chuckled, shaking his head. “She would, wouldn’t she?” Then, his expression sobered as a thought occurred to him. “She’ll… she’ll be back soon.” His statement was half a question.

“She will,” Cullen hastily reassured his friend. “She always comes back.”

“I’m… I’m always with her. I should be with her. What if -”

“Don’t. She _will_ be fine. Your duty to the Inquisition kept you here, Dorian. There was nothing else to be done.” Cullen tried not to let the worry suddenly gripping his insides show in his voice; he wasn’t quite sure if he was attempting to reassure Dorian or himself.

Judging by Dorian’s expression, he was not successful in his attempt. Still, the mage straightened to his full height and dragged a smirk back across his features. “True enough. And someone had to stay here and keep an eye on your… _progress._ ” The mage ran his eyes up and down Cullen’s body exaggeratedly slowly, winking suggestively when their gazes finally met again. He sighed and pursed his lips when Cullen failed to rise to his jest. “I liked it far better when you still reacted to my teasing, O Great Commander.”

Cullen chuckled. “You can’t have everything, Dorian.”

“Is that a challenge? I -”

Dorian was interrupted by the wail of horns, a single, piercing blast that heralded the arrival of friendly forces back to the keep. Both men froze in place. Dorian was the first to realize what was happening and bounded off towards the stairway leading from the training yards with long, purposeful strides. Cullen followed, catching up to his shorter friend by the time they reached the main courtyard. With a loud screech, the heavy gates of the keep were swung wide open by two of Cullen’s men.

Varric rode into sight through the gates on his tall chestnut courser, leading what looked to Cullen like Blackwall’s mount - unsaddled and burdened only by packs and armor. Blackwall was nowhere to be seen. There was a grim expression on the dwarf’s bruised and battered face. His clothes were torn, dried blood caked around the edges of the tears. The unspoken question of what had happened to Blackwall was answered mere moments later as Amalia’s golden stallion came into view.

The horse was walking slowly, unusually heavily burdened with the addition of an extra rider. Astride him, Amalia was in just as bad a state as Varric, with a bloodied lip, a black eye and a smattering of dark bruises covering her slim neck. Her usually immaculate hair was a mess, half of it pulled up into a knot on the top of her head and the rest hanging about her ears in limp, dirty strands. Her clothes were ruined, mottled with blotches of bright red blood set against dirt and grime. The sight of her so disheveled twisted Cullen’s gut like a vise - but it was nothing compared to Blackwall. The slumped form of older warrior was awkwardly wedged in the saddle in front of Amalia, mostly obscuring the Inquisitor from view.

The Warden had been beaten to an almost unrecognizable state. His lower lip was split almost to the chin, his beard matted with dried blood, and the bridge of his nose red and bulging at an awkward angle. One of his eyes was swollen completely shut, but the other lolled about his head as he struggled to maintain his consciousness. Both were set above deep, dark bruises that spoke of both a broken nose and numerous blows to the face. The warrior’s shield arm was clutched awkwardly to his chest, but the angle of the shoulder joint was somehow… wrong. Cullen winced. His shoulder had been dislocated before, and he could all too easily remember how painful it was. He couldn’t for the life of him fathom why Amalia hadn’t put the joint back into place on the road, to ease some of the agony Blackwall must have been feeling.

“Help me get him down.” Amalia’s voice was so hoarse she barely sounded like herself, but it did not diminish the effectiveness of the command. Both Dorian and Cullen were beside her in an instant, reaching up to catch the half-conscious warrior. He slumped into their arms with a pained groan. Between the two of them, they were just barely able to keep the other man on his feet, carefully swinging his arms around each of their shoulders to prop him up. Amalia followed Blackwall down from horseback with far less grace than usual; Cullen held out his free hand to help her, but she shook him off, instead steadying herself against the neck of her horse before handing his reins to a nearby stable boy. The grateful smile she gave the young man didn’t quite touch her eyes.

“We need to get him to the healers.” The moment Amalia turned back to Cullen and Dorian, her face was serious once more. The hoarseness of her voice and the bruises marring her neck gave Cullen an inkling of what someone had tried to do to her. As irrational anger towards whoever had hurt her surged through him, his hand clenched to a fist by his side reflexively. The need to pull her close, to feel for himself that she was alive and safe, was almost too much for Cullen to bear. He could see from the tight set of her jaw that she would not have appreciated that - so with a deep, calming breath he merely nodded stiffly in assent and hoisted Blackwall more firmly against his shoulder. Dorian squawked in protest at the sudden movement.

They followed Amalia towards the healers’ tent, slowly and laboriously transporting a quietly moaning Blackwall between them. Thankfully, it wasn’t a long way to go. Still, when they got there, Cullen’s shirt was once again drenched with sweat and no small amount of the blood that had started oozing out of Blackwall’s numerous half-healed wounds at the jostling.

“Oh Maker!” One of the healers hurried out to meet them, having caught sight of the party approaching. “Bring him here, bring him here. On the cot, here.” She opened an entrance flap to let them pass, gesturing to a cot in the corner of the large tent.

As soon as Dorian and Cullen had lugged their comrade over to the cot and set him down, they were all immediately ushered out by a matronly woman Cullen recognized as the leader of the Skyhold healers. “We need peace to fix… _this_. Come back later.” Not even the Inquisitor’s protests could sway her mind, and soon the trio found themselves standing outside of the tent as the flap closed in their faces.

“What happened?” Dorian was the first to turn on the Inquisitor, an unusually stern look on his face. “You all look as if you almost died.”

“I suppose we almost did,” Amalia spat back and glared at Dorian, defensive as if he had pointed out a personal failing of hers.

Cullen stepped closer to her, gently brushing the strands hair that had fallen from the messy tangle on top of her head away from her neck. “Who did this to you?” Cullen could barely contain the horror in his voice as he eyed the bruises.

Amalia met his gaze, her expression softening. “We were surprised by red templars. Apparently, we use the same red lyrium mine.” Her attempt at humor was dampened by the strain in her voice; it was clearly painful for her to speak. “One of them used a dampening spell on me. Blackwall jumped him and got caught unawares by a behemoth.” She looked toward the tent, her mouth once again drawing in a tight line. “He saved my life.”

Cullen swallowed, seeing in his mind’s eye the scene as Amalia described it. Amalia beneath an attacking red templar, the assailant’s fingers clawing at her throat, cutting off her air, her gasping for breath, fighting for her life… He turned away, unable to bear the sight of the marks on her neck. He was familiar with battle wounds, far past the point of being unnerved by them - seeing the signs of a battle fought and nearly lost on Amalia, however, turned his stomach upside down.

Dorian and Amalia continued the conversation behind him.

“I suppose I must thank the druffalo if he ever recovers.”

“Dorian.”

The Tevinter mage sighed, and when he spoke again, all the sharpness was gone from his voice. “I’m sorry. That was unnecessary. I’ve just… I’ve been worried.” ‘Worried’ was such an understatement that Cullen almost chuckled. He had seen the look in Dorian’s eyes these past few days, and it had reminded him hauntingly of those moments they had spent together in a tent during the aftermath of Haven - those moments when they had both been sure they would never see Amalia again.

Amalia’s reproachful tone softened. She had heard the pain and fear in Dorian’s admission just as clearly as Cullen had. “I know. We’re back now.” She paused for a moment before continuing in a more businesslike manner: “go inform Leliana and Josephine that we have returned. After that, ensure Dagna has gotten the red lyrium. Varric said he’d deliver it to her right away. We _need_ that rune.”

“And you’ll be staying right here until you get word of Blackwall, I take it?”

Cullen didn’t need to turn around to know Amalia’s face would currently be set in an obstinate stare as she waited for her orders to be followed. It didn’t take long for Dorian to relent. “Fine. I’ll go. I’m sure I’ll find you here should I need you.” Cullen heard Dorian’s footsteps retreating across the courtyard.

Soon, he felt Amalia’s hand on his arm. “Hello,” she said so quietly her voice sounded almost normal. Cullen’s throat tightened, and he turned around to sweep her in a hug.

“Cullen,” she protested, and Cullen loosened his grip but didn’t let her go. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, closed his eyes and thanked the Maker and Blackwall and anyone else he could think of that she was here with him now instead of lying cold and still at the bottom of that voidstricken red lyrium mine. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he took a deep breath to steady himself.

“I’m fine, Cullen.”

“I know,” he replied gruffly.

“You can let me go now,” she said gently, but in a tone that made it clear it wasn’t a request.

He did as he was told, taking another deliberate deep breath and stepping away from her to wipe a hand across his eyes. He looked up to see Amalia giving him a small smile and tried to return it with one of his own.

“I missed you too,” she finally said, ending the silence that had fallen between them. Cullen could see the facade of strength Amalia had put on since the moment she entered the gates of Skyhold ebbing away by the minute. The alertness was seeping from her gaze at an alarming rate, and she swayed on her feet. He reached out to steady her.

“I think… I think I need to sit for a moment.” Her admittance of even that one small failing worried him - she tended to hide her weakness until the very last. He immediately turned to pick up one of the benches from the edge of the courtyard and brought it over to her. Amalia sat down with a grateful sigh.

“Should I get one of the healers?”

She shook her head, instead grabbing his hand, pulling him down next to her on the bench and twining their fingers together in her lap. “I’m fine,” she repeated, though the reassurance fell flat with her voice the way it was. “The ride back was... difficult. I just need rest.” She leaned on his shoulder, and he pressed his lips to the top of her head again.

Cullen breathed in the familiar smell of Amalia’s hair, which, even marred by the smell of travel, of blood and sweat, covering her body, calmed the tendrils of worry still snaking through his mind. As his anxiety waned and his mind finally accepted that she was truly here, with him, alive and safe, the tension he had been holding in his shoulders slowly melted away. Even as he relaxed, however, Amalia grew restless. The furtive glances she shot in the direction of the healer’s tent increased, and her body grew rigid against his.

Cullen said nothing. He knew Amalia preferred to speak of her emotions of her own volition. Instead, he gently extricated his hand from hers and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her tight against his chest and once again kissing the top of her head.

Cullen was momentarily elated to feel Amalia relax a little against him, clearly gaining some comfort from his presence. His happiness was short-lived as she coughed and turned her face up to look at him with a slight smile on her lips.

“You smell.” She wrinkled her nose in illustration.

The sudden statement surprised an embarrassed chuckle out of Cullen. “I was training.”

“Clearly.” Despite her protestations, she didn’t pull away, instead curling more tightly against his side and falling silent.

They stayed there for a long time. It wasn’t until the tent flap finally opened and Amalia failed to react that Cullen realized she had dozed off in the circle of his arm. A warm feeling spread through him - he was touched by this newfound familiarity she had with him, by the trust she placed in him by allowing herself to be so vulnerable. Loathe to break her peace, but knowing that he must, Cullen gently brushed the hair from her face and leaned down a little to whisper in her ear. “Wake up, darling.” The endearment fell off his lips without thinking. He froze for a moment, but to his relief her breathing stayed steady, her eyes closed. He wasn’t quite sure he was ready to call her that just yet. “Amalia. The healers are coming.”

Amalia jolted awake. It took her only a moment to gather herself and get back on top of the situation; she was on her feet by the time the senior healer reached them, once again donning the face of the dauntless Inquisitor.

“Warden Blackwall’s situation has been stabilized, Inquisitor. We were able to stanch the bleeding and set the bones in his shoulder. The joint is very badly damaged, but he should regain full use of the limb eventually. His face will be… scarred. We’re afraid his vision may have been compromised, but it is too soon to tell for sure.”

“Thank you, Armande. Can I see him?”

“I believe it would be beneficial for the Warden to rest, My Lady. I suggest you come back in the morning.”

It was a testament to how tired Amalia was that she relented immediately. “If you say so.”

“Are _you_ alright, Inquisitor?” The healer looked their leader up and down. “There isn’t much we can do for bruising, but I may have a tonic to help your voice.”

“Thank you, but I just need some rest.”

The healer nodded, not looking convinced. “All the same, I shall send someone to your quarters with the tonic. We must make sure there are no internal injuries. The Warden managed to explain something of what had befallen you.”

Amalia dismissed the healer with a nod, and she retreated back to the tent.

“We should get you to your quarters,” Cullen gently touched Amalia’s shoulder. She raised an eyebrow at his words, a sly smile curling at the corner of her mouth despite her exhaustion. Cullen groaned. “Oh, Maker’s breath, Amalia. That is not what I meant. You need _rest_.”

To his surprise, she moved off toward her chambers without another word. Cullen went with her, determined to ensure she made it all the way to the other side of the keep without collapsing. It was slow going. With everything that had been going on, he hadn’t noticed that Amalia walked with a slight limp. He didn’t offer her assistance, knowing she would not take it as long as anyone else was in sight. Both Amalia and Cullen returned nods and salutes of greeting to various Inquisition members here and there, and a hushed whisper spread throughout the keep as they walked. The return of the Inquisitor from her travels was always a matter of gossip, made particularly exciting this time by her clearly beaten appearance. Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen could see Amalia struggling to look alert and composed until they were out of sight.

When they finally reached the stairway to her rooms, hidden away in a side corridor of the great hall, Cullen hesitantly wrapped his arm around her to support her. She glanced at him but still said nothing, accepting the help and letting him bear some of her weight on the way up. Cullen was concentrating too much on the task at hand to realize what he was doing until they rounded the final spiral of the stairwell and entered Amalia’s bed chamber.

He had never been to the Inquisitor’s private quarters before. An intricately carved four-poster bed of dark wood dominated one side of the room, its bedspread a heavy brocade of red silk and gold thread, almost gaudy in all its opulence. The cold white marble of the floor was offset by similarly colored rugs strewn about the room. Book cases filled with tomes upon tomes lined the walls, and a pile of dog-eared and clearly well-loved books were spread out across a loveseat and coffee table in front of a gargantuan marble fireplace. To the opposite side of the room, the afternoon sunlight shone in through high, arched windows, filtering in through the stained glass in brilliant hues of red and yellow. Nestled between them were massive double doors, dwarfed by the sheer size of the windows, leading to a private balcony.

Cullen could not remember the last time he had seen such splendor, but Amalia fit in here. The room around them was a sharp reminder of how different their backgrounds were, how inappropriate everything happening between them was. And yet, there was something undeniably intimate about being in her quarters - a place he knew was rarely seen by anyone but the Inquisitor herself. Amidst a life spent constantly watched by others, he knew she valued her privacy just as much, if not more, than he did. And she had just let him into her retreat from the world.

Beside him, Amalia coughed slightly, and Cullen’s face reddened as he realized he’d been staring at the room slack-jawed for a few moments. He turned to see her looking at him, her eyebrows raised in question.

“It’s… I haven’t been here before.”

Amalia laughed quietly and moved across the room, sitting on the edge of the loveseat to unlace her boots. “It’s just a room.” As she took off her boots one by one and threw them casually to the side, she shivered slightly.

“Are you cold?” Cullen asked, already making his way toward the pile of wood stacked by the fireplace. The room was chilly despite the warmth of the early autumn day; the fires had been unlit for weeks, and the already cold nights had been able to permeate the deep stone walls around them.

Amalia waved a hand at him, motioning him away from the fireplace. “One of the maids will be here to light it in just a moment.” Ignoring her, Cullen started piling wood in the fireplace, and then looked around for the flint and steel he assumed would be somewhere nearby.

After the fire had been lit, he turned back toward Amalia to find her looking at him with a strange expression in her eyes. “I could normally have lit that from here,” she said with a wry smile. “I guess I’m a little tapped out.” Her exhaustion was even more apparent with the croak her voice was rapidly becoming.

“You really should rest.” Cullen glanced meaningfully towards the bed. “The healer will likely be here soon.”

Amalia stayed where she was, lips pursed.

Cullen sighed. “Amalia, please.” Just this once, she could do as she was bid. “Dorian and I have been out of our minds. Neither of us will be able to calm down until we see you recovered.”

His ruse worked, and she rose from the loveseat with a groan. “I don’t know if your tactics are quite fair, but they certainly are effective.” Amalia moved closer to him, towards the bed. “I have one condition, however.”

“What would that be?”

Cullen just barely caught the mischievous glint in her eye before she was on tiptoes in front of him, pulling his head down and pressing her lips to his. He wrapped his arms around her eagerly and deepened the kiss - until suddenly he could taste blood in his mouth. Before he knew it, Amalia had pulled back and winced. “Ow.” She lightly touched her lower lip with her thumb, catching the drops of blood pooling where a cut had split open. “I forgot about that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I think the fault was entirely mine.” Amalia laughed. “But I believe you’ve met my conditions.”

“Good.” Cullen gave her a small smile and steered her towards the bed until he had her seated on the edge of it. She gestured for him to sit next to her, and, with a slight flutter of his stomach at the thought of being on her _bed_ , he did as requested.

Suddenly, her eyes were sharp on his. She grabbed his chin and turned his head sideways very much like Dorian had done mere hours ago. “What’s this?” Despite her bruised throat, the question struck like a whip.

“It’s nothing. Just a rash.” Once again, Cullen shrugged away from an all-too-inquisitive grip and moved away, pulling up the collar of his shirt to hide the welts on his throat.

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It is.”

Amalia huffed and crossed her hands over her chest, all exhaustion gone from her as she stared him down. “Cullen, that is not nothing.”

He stared back at her in silence for a long moment. Her eyes burned into his, evoking a memory of how he had seen her when they had first met - terrifying in her fierce determination, unbowed, uncompromising. Cullen could do nothing but bend to her will. “It may be a reaction from the felandaris,” he admitted quietly.

“Have you told Dorian?”

“He’s… he’s seen it.”

“Which means you didn’t tell him.”

Cullen sighed, reaching up to rub the healthy side of his neck in consternation. “I was keeping an eye on it. Now is not the time to argue about this, Amalia. Your health is a much more pressing concern.”

As if on cue, there was a knock from the stairwell leading into the room. “Inquisitor?” A woman’s voice called up. “Inquisitor, Healer Armande has sent me to tend to you.”

Amalia closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and then opened them again before answering. “Please, do come up.” All traces of her earlier annoyance were gone from her tone, carefully hidden beneath refined manners, but not from her eyes. “Cullen, we will discuss this later.”

Taking that as his dismissal, Cullen turned on his heel and headed down the stairwell, nodding at the healer as they passed one another. Truth be told, he was glad to escape the Inquisitor’s wrath. Perhaps she would have calmed down by the time they had a chance to speak again.

He knew it was a vain hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got more Amalia coms. Oh God, I love them all. I'm going to try to post one with each chapter, but I feel like I'm getting more of these than I am writing chapters. Pls, send halp.
> 
> By the amazing @antivancorvo on tumblr, the Baest of the Bae. <3  
>   
> 
> 
> (YES, THAT IS AMALIA WEARING CULLEN'S HORRIDLY SMELLY FUR THING. I LOVE IT. THAT IS THE BEST THING. OH MY GOSH.)


	31. Tables

The dawn found Cullen once again by the desk in his study, looking over maps and reports. Leliana’s scouts were scouring Thedas for any trace of Samson - so far, to very little end. Amalia had managed to bring back some stolen correspondence from her latest mission, and it all mentioned the same cryptic hideout they had been reading about in intercepted red templar missives for over a month now. The Temple. What temple? Where? Was it an actual temple, or merely a symbolic name for their main base of operations?

Cullen sighed heavily and crumpled the latest useless report in his fist. _We have yet to find any concrete information on the Temple._ In his exasperation, he threw the balled up parchment across the room, then immediately turned to pick it up and place it in the paper basket near his desk where it belonged. The juvenile expression of annoyance hadn’t made him feel any better.

Samson had to be stopped. With every day that went by, more and more of his former brethren were falling into Samson’s hands, suffering, being turned into horrible monsters. Sometimes, lying in his bed in the darkest hours of the night, Cullen imagined the red templars’ pain - his brothers’ pain. The screech of red lyrium in their bones, chipping away at their sanity, corrupting everything that made them human piece by piece, until there was nothing left but an empty, rotting corpse, kept mobile only by the living red crystals that had taken their very minds and souls. If things had been different, he might have been one of them. Samson had to be stopped - and Cullen wanted to be the one to do it. If only they could find that damn temple. There had to be some way to find out more, some source of knowledge previously untapped.

His dark thoughts were interrupted by a piercing pain that shot through his skull, behind his eyes and down his spine, reminding him to take his daily dose of felandaris. He took a deep breath before lifting the flask from his desk to his lips, bracing himself for what he knew was to come. The musty smell of the elixir burned in his nose, but that was nothing compared to the searing pain he felt as it scorched his tongue, burned its way down his throat and into his stomach, clawing at his insides. Cullen closed his eyes for a moment, willing his body to accept the mixture. This was nothing compared to lyrium withdrawal symptoms, after all - if he had survived that, he could survive this. As the elixir finally settled in his stomach, he recorked the flask and put it back on his desk. Maker, the pain seemed to get worse every day. He lifted his hand to his neck, feeling the raw, aching flesh there. His fingers came back bloodied. Apparently, he had been scratching during the night again. He wiped the blood on his trousers and shook the thought out of his mind. It was still better than the hallucinations he would suffer if he stopped taking the felandaris.

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Cullen called, looking up and expecting to see one of his soldiers or Leliana’s scouts with another report in hand. Instead, familiar eyes of molten gold stared back at him. “Good morning, Amalia,” he said carefully. The memory of her glare when they had last parted made him cautious.

“Cullen.” She entered the room, closing the door behind her with more force than necessary. Her clipped reply to his greeting gave him the confirmation he needed: she had not, in fact, calmed down overnight. She looked little better than she had upon her arrival yesterday; some color had returned to her face, the dark shadows under her eyes had abated, and her voice had returned almost to normal - but the bruises covering her neck were still very much the same, as were the various cuts criss-crossing her face and arms. Still, clean and pristinely dressed as she was, she was far more herself now. The softness brought about by the exhaustion from her journey had evaporated, to be replaced by the annoyance she now unleashed on him. “We need to talk.”

“So you said.”

“About the side effects of the felandaris.”

“We don’t _know_ that it’s caused by the extract.”

Amalia closed her eyes and took a deep breath, clearly attempting to calm herself. She was only moderately successful: when she looked at him again, her glare had softened, but her tone was still just as harsh. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Cullen.”

“We have no proof,” Cullen insisted. “The timing is… suspicious, I’ll admit, but we cannot be certain the reaction is a result of the felandaris. Not certain enough for me to stop taking it, at any rate.”

“Had you spoken to Dorian about the matter, you would know that a skin reaction is one of the first symptoms of the felandaris starting to go wrong, according to the literature.”

“With all due respect, Amalia - anything the elixir causes, I will gladly stand. It cannot be worse than the… the withdrawal.”

“It could kill you.”

That surprised him. “It’s a _rash_.”

“Which could indicate that the extract is poisoning your blood. You didn’t wish to know the details when you started taking it, and that was fine - as long as you agreed to tell us if anything went wrong. You failed to do so.” As Amalia spoke, she advanced on him, circling around his desk to bring them face to face. From the hard set of her jaw, it was clear that she was very angry with him. Her eyes burned into his fiercely, and the air around them rippled with her magic as it reacted to her intense emotions. He could see her pulling on all her authority over him, trying to intimidate him into bending to her will. With every passing moment, she reminded him more and more of the Herald he had met all those months ago in Haven, instead of the woman he had come to know as Amalia here in Skyhold.

Before, the sheer force of her anger would have terrified him into diffusing the tension and appeasing her to restore peace. Now, however, his annoyance flared. Amalia knew, perhaps better than anyone, what he had been going through before the felandaris extract had saved him. For her to want him to abandon the only peace he had known for months, _years_ , on the mere suspicion that something was wrong seemed to almost insult the agony he had endured. By now, she was so close he could feel the heat of her magic, barely contained within her, like sparks across his skin. And yet he did not back down. Instead, he took a step closer to her, staring her down, forcing her to lift her chin to look up at him.

“I made a decision regarding my own well-being. That is not a crime.”

“Without consulting me? Or Dorian, in my stead? Or even _telling_ us? It hasn’t even been a month since you waxed lyrical about how there should be full disclosure between us. A point I agreed with, that _we_ agreed upon. Or does that only apply to me and my red lyrium smuggling? Are there any other exceptions to this demand of honesty that I should know about?”

Cullen scoffed. “That situation is in no way comparable. This is a personal matter and does not concern the Inquisition. It is of no consequence if it does not impede my ability to do my duty, and, as of yet, the extract has only strengthened my capabilities.”

The anger in her eyes flared again. “And what about the people who love you? Should your _personal matters_ concern us, or are we to be kept out of this as well?”

Cullen froze. Love? If he hadn’t been on the felandaris extract, he would have been convinced he was hallucinating - but no, this was no lyrium-conjured desire demon here before him. This was Amalia. The real Amalia. She had said that one little word, those four little letters, had spat them in his face in a moment of anger - and yet, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. Cullen opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He felt as if his heart had jumped into his throat and his stomach plunged through the floor.

It was only when he failed to reply that Amalia seemed to realized what she had just said. Slowly, her glare melted, first to an expression of confusion and then one of uncertainty.

A heavy silence hung in the air as they stared at each other.

“You… you love me?” Cullen finally repeated.

“That’s what I said, yes.” Amalia said, enunciating each word even more carefully than usual, sounding almost as shocked as he was. Her eyes searched his, and he could see her struggling in vain to gauge his reaction to her unwitting confession from his blank expression. “I don’t know if you-”

Cullen closed the distance between them and crushed his lips against hers, cutting her off, making her gasp against his mouth. She took an involuntary step backwards and collided with the desk behind her - but then she was kissing him back, her mouth demanding and eager against his and her breath hot on his lips. The intoxicating taste of her was heavy on his tongue, lemons and mint and more _._ Every curve of her body fit perfectly against his - soft and warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the steel of their earlier discourse.

She loved him.

The words echoed in his mind, their meaning slowly, surely, sinking in. Deep in his core, he knew - had known for a long time - that he wanted this woman forever. He hadn’t let himself consider what would happen after the war, after the Inquisition, after they were no longer forced to be together in the line of duty… because he hadn’t wanted to imagine a version of his future without her in it. That alternative was too painful, and he hadn’t been sure of how she felt - whether or not everything that had passed between them was just a fleeting thing for her, a momentary fancy in the midst of a war-torn time. He wouldn’t have blamed her, not really. Hers was a heavy burden to bear; it was only natural she would seek some measure of comfort where she could.

But Amalia loved him. Not lust, not a momentary fancy, but _love_. He knew her well enough to know she placed the same meaning on the word that he did. Against all odds, despite everything he was and everything he had done, Cullen had somehow earned his redemption in her eyes. Maker knew it was enough for now, enough for forever, to have the love of this woman and be allowed to love her in return.

He leaned deeper into her, forcing her to place her hands behind her on the desk to keep her balance. He cupped her face in his palms, then ran his fingers through her hair, pulling it loose from where it was pinned neatly to the top of her head. His fingers followed the strands as they fell, running along the curve of her spine to reach her hips. As he pulled her against himself, holding her weight in his hands, her hands were freed to roam his body. Forgetting himself for a moment, he caught her lower lip between his teeth.

The taste of blood against his tongue brought Cullen back to his senses - he was horrified to realize he had forgotten Amalia was still recovering from her injuries. He tried to pull away, but she dug her nails into his waist to stop him. “No,” she murmured, recapturing his lips with her own, not caring about the reopened wound.

Cullen tried to stay gentle, to prevent himself from hurting her further, but then her hands found the hem of his shirt and yanked it up. Her fingers splayed across his stomach, heated skin on heated skin, and a low moan rose in her throat. Her touch was almost too much for him to bear - his hesitation shattered in that instant. He wanted her, _needed_ her, with an almost painful intensity. His hands tried to find their way lower, to grasp her rear and pull her further into his arms, but the damn desk was in the way.

It was almost as if Amalia could sense his thoughts. She pushed him back for an instant, just long enough to hop onto the desk - and then he was on her, roughly knocking her on her back on the wooden surface, positioning himself over her, between her parted legs.

Her hands tore at the front of his shirt. “Off,” she murmured against his lips, eliciting a chuckle from him. When he didn’t immediately comply, she tugged at the fabric again. “Now.”

Cullen complied with her demands and leaned back, lifting his arms to let her pull the shirt over his shoulders and throw it across the room. She immediately grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him back on top of her, her fingers running across his shoulder blades, along the curve of his spine, tracing the scars on his chest, his sides, his stomach - committing his body to memory.

Cullen wanted to do the same to hers - to know and feel every single part of her. Breaking free of their heated kisses, his lips trailed slowly from her mouth and across her jaw line. He could hear her breath catch as he moved lower, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat, then even lower, until his lips found her collarbone, exposed beneath her loose-cut shirt. He nipped it lightly with his teeth, reveling in the flush he saw there, the salty taste of sweat that signaled her body rising to his touch. The answering moan that fell off of Amalia’s lips sent the blood rushing out of his head.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash of splintering glass against stone, and a familiar, pungent smell enveloped them. Cullen bolted upright, blinking rapidly to clear his head and force his mind to start working. He smelled felandaris. Why?

Amalia sat up as well, her face flushed, breathing hard, uncharacteristically undignified in her surprise. “I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly, looking down at the flask that lay smashed next to the table where she had knocked it to the floor.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cullen managed. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the frantic racing of his heart. The interruption had broken the spell of the moment and brought back the entire quarrel he had momentarily forgotten. “I don’t… Amalia… That...”  He didn’t even know what he was trying to say.

Amalia gave him a reassuring smile. She was regaining her composure far faster than he was; even as he still lay, awkwardly half-prone and half-naked over the desk, she had scooted off the end of it. She was now standing across from him, tidying up her hair and smoothing down her ruffled clothes. It didn’t take her long to look presentable, if not quite as pristinely kempt as usual.

Cullen himself managed only to straighten up and pull himself to his feet, feeling a little weak at the knees. He ran a hand through his hair, perfunctorily trying to comb it back down.

“So, have I convinced you?” Amalia asked. “To drop the felandaris, I mean.”

“It seems you dropped it for me.” Cullen glanced at the broken flask on the floor. He was avoiding answering the question, and they both knew it.

Amalia raised an eyebrow sardonically. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to you being funny now. I’m not quite sure I like it.”

Cullen chuckled. “Dorian often says the same.”

“I’m sure he does.” Despite Cullen’s comedic efforts, Amalia would not be distracted. “Will you at least consider it? I know it’s a lot to ask; I know how painful it would be for you. I would not even entertain the notion it if I didn’t believe it was absolutely necessary.” Her expression was suddenly pained, and Cullen couldn’t believe he had ever thought she would be so callous as to not give his suffering due credit in her deliberations.

Eager to bring a smile back to her face, Cullen circled the table to take her hand in his and press her palm to his lips. “I’m sorry I didn’t… What I mean to say is, you’re right. I should have told you.”

“Given my reaction, I can’t say I blame you too much.” Amalia sighed, gently pulling her hand away from his to run her fingertips across his cheek. “But please. Will you at least speak with Dorian about it? Or one of the healers?” He could see her eyeing the rash on his neck, laid bare by his continued state of undress.

The worry Cullen saw etched across her features almost broke his heart. He didn’t want to be the one to make her feel like this. “I’ll speak with Dorian, but I… I won’t make any further promises. I don’t know if I could return to… to what it was like before.” _Even if the alternative kills me_ , he added in his mind - but he wouldn’t say that to her.

“That’s all I’m asking for,” she murmured, though he could see she wasn’t reassured. Her eyes drifted to the other side of the room, unseeing.

Cullen wasn’t sure he wanted Amalia to think about this particular matter at any great length. He brushed an unruly lock of blond hair behind her ear, hoping to distract her, and her eyes snapped back to him. The corner of her mouth quirked up in a smile more in keeping with her usual countenance, and she looked down at his bare upper body appraisingly. Cullen shifted under her gaze, simultaneously pleased to see his ruse had worked and feeling a little self-conscious about how exactly it had done so.

“It seems you’ve upset a great many people.” Amalia reached out to lightly trace one of the many scars running across his upper body. He shivered in response to the trail of goosebumps left behind by her touch.

“That one… that one was actually a bear.” His voice came out strangled - the scar in question led from his navel to right below his hip bone, and the flutter of her fingers had once again sent his blood racing downwards. Through the haze of desire, he found himself wondering idly how she could have this effect on him - make him forget everything in the world but her hands on his body with a mere touch.

“A bear,” she repeated quietly. From the glint in her eye, Amalia clearly knew exactly what she was doing to him - and liked it. The quiet promise in the air was shattered by her next words. “I should get going. There’s quite a lot to be done today.”

A wave of disappointment washed through Cullen, dousing the eager thoughts bouncing around his mind with cold reality. “You’re right.” Despite his verbal agreement, he just couldn’t let her go. Gently, carefully, he pulled her against his chest, his other hand finding her chin to tilt her face up to his for one more kiss.

She answered it gently, clearly favoring her split lip again now that the heat of the earlier moment had passed. Still, when they broke apart, there was a smile in her eyes.

“Before I go… Are you sure there isn’t something you forgot, Cullen?” The corner of her mouth had turned up in a smirk again.

“I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Let me know if you remember.”

Amalia had already reached the door of the study by the time Cullen grasped what she was referring to. In a few steps, he had caught up with her, grabbing her by the waist and gently wedging her against the door she had been about to open.

“I love you too, Amalia.” _Of course_ he did.

She laughed quietly; they were so close he could feel it more than hear it. “I kind of figured, to be honest.” Despite the nonchalance of her words, Cullen could see the relief behind her smirk. He gently pressed his lips to hers one more time, then stepped back to let her leave.

After she was gone, Cullen took a moment to catch his breath. He had only just gotten around to pulling his shirt back on when there was once again a knock at the door.

“Yes?”

Cullen looked up, trying to stifle the flash of disappointment he felt when the person who entered his study did not turn out to be Amalia.

“Something to report, Jim?”

“I have a parcel for you, sir, from Master Tethras.”

“Thank you, Jim.” Cullen held out his hand for the missive, then dismissed the recruit with a nod before ripping open the seal.

 

_Curly,_

_I have been awarded temporary command of the Inquisition for the duration of this evening, and will thus be holding a small ceremony to commemorate this event. I will require your presence at the tavern at sundown._

 

_Meaning I’ve cleared it with Amalia, and she says you need to show up. No excuses. See you there._

 

_-Varric_

 

What _now_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaah. I've spent way too long fussing over this chapter, so I have just decided to post it and be done with it. Bit of a shorter installment this time - due to the aforementioned fuss. 
> 
> COMMISSIONS! MORE COMMISSIONS! I AM CRYING. Look at what the amazing [Elvenbeard](http://elvenbeard.tumblr.com/) did of Amalia and Rabbit. I want to cry, it's just so gorgeous, omg.


	32. Cards

 

It had been an immeasurably long day.

Since Amalia had come to see him early that morning, Cullen had not been able to get her out of his mind. As a result, his attempts to get any work done had been futile. His annoyance at his own lack of concentration had finally driven him to the training yards for the entire afternoon, determined to work out his frustrations by sword and shield.

Ritter had been all too eager to spar with his commander, and, as a result, Cullen had come away from the training pit feeling as if there was not an inch of his body that wasn’t covered in bruises. The exhaustion had the desired effect, however: by the time he was back in his quarters, wiping away the sweat on his brow with a damp washcloth, all thoughts of Amalia and what she had told him this morning had completely escaped his mind. Instead, he was planning a new training regime for his newest batch of recruits. Based on what Ritter had told him in the sparse conversation between their sparring matches, the recruits had a lot to learn. After Cullen had changed, he climbed down the ladder to settle down at his desk, finally able to concentrate on work.

It wasn’t until the setting sun threw its last rays of light through his window and into his eyes that he was reminded of something else he had forgotten: Varric’s meeting. “Oh, Maker’s breath,” he muttered, quickly getting up and crossing the room to pull on his cloak and leave for the tavern.

Autumn was swiftly giving way to winter. Hurried along by the freezing winds gusting through Skyhold as well as his tardiness, Cullen reached his destination in record time and pulled open the door to find himself face to face with a very motley congregation of the Inquisitor’s closest companions: the Iron Bull, Josephine, Leliana, Varric, Cassandra, Cole. Even Blackwall, still covered in an assortment of cuts, bruises, bandages and splints, had been summoned to participate, though he did not look very pleased about it. He was glowering in the corner of the otherwise empty tavern, sipping from a large mug of ale. The two faces Cullen had most been looking forward to seeing were conspicuously absent, though - Dorian and Amalia were missing.

“Hey, Curly. I was beginning to think we’d have to send Dorian to get you, too,” Varric greeted him from his seat at the far end of the long table that dominated the tavern’s main room.  Seated around him, the others gave Cullen smiles, waves and nods of acknowledgement, which he returned in kind.

“Your letter made it quite clear that attendance was not voluntary,” Cullen said drily as he took a seat next to Josephine, who had scooted further down the bench to make room for him. “Why have you gathered us here?”

“Well, it occurred to me that you and Amalia aren’t the only two who work far too much,” Varric said with a grin. “None of you really take the time to enjoy yourselves - so I thought I’d force you to take a night off. We’re going to drink some ale and play some cards.”

“Ooh, Wicked Grace? It’s been ages since I’ve played any Wicked Grace.” Josephine’s eyes lit up at the prospect. “I wonder if I’ll even remember the rules.”

Leliana glanced at Josephine from the corner of her eye. “Since I’ve been brought here, I suppose I shall also play.”

“I’m always up for beer,” the Iron Bull joined in with Josephine’s enthusiasm. “Where’s the boss?”

“Where do you think?” Cassandra said, though despite her harsh tone even she seemed to be in good spirits. “Dorian is retrieving her. She seems to have forgotten her attendance was also required.”

“Not forgotten. Thoughts misplaced, but never forgotten.” Cole tilted his head from side to side, looking at the mug of ale on the table in front of him. “Is it supposed to bubble like this?”

Varric snorted. “I still can’t believe you’ve never had ale before, kid.”

“Remember to take it easy with that,” the Iron Bull added with a chuckle. “It ain’t just juice.”

His words were met with laughter from all around the table, and the conversation continued, flowing with easy smiles and laughs from person to person. Cullen himself stayed quiet, obediently sipping on the ale pushed toward him by Varric. It was clear from the way they talked that the people around him spent a lot of time together - perhaps in this very tavern on evenings such as this, or on the road with Amalia.

Once, Cullen himself had been a part of something like this, too. He had belonged somewhere. While he hadn’t been the most popular recruit, he’d had his fair share of friends in templar training. They’d often sat around the fire in the great hall, swapping jokes and japes until the testy overseer had snarled at them to get into their quarters and go to sleep - an order they’d always obeyed quickly, but with hidden grins and muffled laughs. That last night, the night before he, Kenneth and Arram had left to start their service in Kinloch Hold, their entire training squadron had sat up until the wee hours of the morning, painting pictures of their futures for each other. They had been such young men then. Eager and excited to begin on the path they thought would lead them to glory and honor - in a way only young men could be.

None of them had been able to imagine what their futures would really hold. Any lives they may have led had been snatched from them by the events of Kinloch Hold - irrevocably, for Kenneth and Arram. For Cullen himself… perhaps, one day, he could be a part of something again. Belong not only somewhere, but _with_ someone.

His introspection was interrupted by a bang. The Iron Bull had slammed another mug of ale down on the table and then sat down across from him. “You heard the man: no brooding tonight, Commander.”

Cullen chuckled. “I suppose I’ll need more ale, then.”

“That’s more like it.” The Iron Bull nudged the ale he had placed on the table toward him, and Cullen set aside his now empty mug in favor of the full one. He lifted it toward the other man in a thankful gesture, which the Qunari returned with a grin. “To the boss, ‘eh? Though you probably call her something else. Or maybe not.”

Cullen stifled a snort at the Iron Bull’s suggestive tone by taking a big gulp of ale, and the Qunari laughed.

Right then, the door of the tavern swung open, and a gust of wind blew a flurry of snow and two cloaked figures inside - apparently, autumn was truly turning into winter. After rushing to close the door behind them before all the warmth stole out of the tavern, Amalia and Dorian turned to face the gathered congregation.

“I’ve managed to drag her away from the war room,” Dorian announced triumphantly, brushing a hand across the top of his head to smooth down his hair.

Amalia rolled her eyes beside him. She lowered the hood of her deep red cloak, sending a shower of half-melted snow falling to the floor. “I was just about to come myself. There were a few matters I needed to see to first.”

“I doubt anyone here believes that, love.” Dorian shrugged dismissively and took his seat at the far end of the table. He glanced at Cullen. “Nice to see you’ve made it here, too, Cullen. I must admit, I didn’t think you were physically capable of leaving your paperwork for even one evening.”

Cullen look at his friend with exasperation and received a wry smile in return.

The Iron Bull and Cole hurried to make room for Amalia. “Good evening,” she greeted everyone - except her eyes were fixed on Cullen’s, and the small smile that played on her lips was meant only for him. There were various murmurs and words of greeting from around Cullen, but he found he could not join in. His mouth was suddenly dry, her words from before echoing in his head.

She loved him.

Perhaps Cullen had already found someone he belonged with. All of a sudden, the room was aglow with more than just the heat of the fire.

“She is sorry for breaking it, but she could not say. It is the first -”

“Cole,” Amalia interrupted gently, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Not now.”

Cole nodded, looking from Amalia to Cullen, who shifted his gaze uncomfortably from the baleful grey eyes of the younger man. He had been assured that Cole was no threat to them, but at the same time, he couldn’t say he shared Amalia’s fondness for the boy. His cryptic words puzzled Cullen, and he caught Amalia’s eye in silent question. She shook her head ever so slightly, and Cullen turned back to his ale. There was clearly something she didn’t wish to discuss with him. He would not press her.

Dorian was clearly similarly intrigued, but before he could open his mouth to speak Amalia shot him a warning look sharp enough to silence even him.

“Well, now that we’re all here…” Varric began, and all eyes turned to him. “Who’s up for some cards?”

The suggestion was met with enthusiasm, and Amalia finally took her seat between Cole and the Iron Bull. Josephine produced a pack of Wicked Grace cards from her pocket and began to deal them out.

“Everyone familiar with the rules?” Varric asked.

There were nods all around the table, except from Cassandra and Cole.

“I can never remember how it goes. Are three drakes better than a pair of swords?” Cassandra muttered, picking up her cards with a frown.

“You aren’t supposed to announce your cards to the table, Seeker,” Varric chuckled. “You must remember that much, at least.”

Cassandra scoffed in reply, but obediently fell silent.

Cole just looked confused. “Why is he so sad?” He showed the card to the entire table. “There’s a crown on his head and a sword in his hand. He doesn’t want them. I cannot make him happy without taking them away.”

“Cards don’t have feelings, Cole,” the Iron Bull said, looking around Amalia to meet the younger man’s gaze.

Amalia nudged Cole, taking the card he was still showing to everyone around the table and putting it back in his hand. “Don’t show everyone your cards, Cole. Here, I’ll help you with the rules for the first few games.” She leaned over to whisper in his ear, pointing to each of the boy’s cards in turn as she explained.

“Are you in, Hero? Or should I say Grumpy?” Varric looked at Blackwall, who shook his head and grunted, not even bothering to look up. Amalia eyed the Warden briefly, a shadow of concern passing over her eyes, before she returned to the task of explaining the game to Cole.

Cullen picked up his own stack and looked at his cards. Oh, good. He could certainly make something of this.

“The dealer bids three coppers,” Josephine announced. “Or do you think that’s too daring? Perhaps one copper… No, three it is!”

“Three coppers?” The Iron Bull laughed. “A full silver, or go home.”

“I’m in,” Cullen said, taking his coin purse from his belt and flicking a silver across the table to join the Iron Bull’s. Josephine, wrinkling her nose in consternation, took more coins out of her coin purse to stay in the game.

“I am, as well,” Amalia added.

Dorian nodded silently and threw in his silver as well, his face impassive.

Cassandra scoffed and shook her head, throwing her cards in the center of the table. “I am out. This is ridiculous.”

Leliana’s eyes flickered from Josephine to Amalia before shaking her head and placing her cards on the table next to Cassandra’s.

“Kid?” Varric asked.

“Yes?” Cole gave up fiddling with his cards for a moment to reply.

“Are you in?”

Cole looked to Amalia helplessly, and she shook her head. “I don’t think I am,” he said, looking back at Varric. The dwarf chuckled.

“Alright, the kid’s out. I’m in.”

Cards were discarded and drawn by each of the players still in the game.

“I’ll take two silvers,” Amalia said quietly, adding another coin to the small pile in the center of the table, her face unreadable except for the small twitch in the corner of her lip. It was a twitch Cullen had seen before, at the chess table whenever Amalia had noticed she could no longer win. She did not have the cards to back her raise, he was sure of it.

“I’ll see your two,” he said.

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Josephine hummed and hawed for a second, until Varric finally sighed.

“We don’t have all night, Ruffles.”

“All right!” The ambassador threw another coin across the table. “I pray this wasn’t a mistake.”

Battle lines drawn, they continued playing, drawing and discarding cards in turn. It was a mere three turns later that the game ended, and Amalia gathered the pile of coins from the center of the table with a cocky smile.

It didn’t take long for Cullen to size up his opponents. Amalia was an impulsive high bidder, as he had known she would be. She either won huge amounts, or lost catastrophically. Josephine was a nervous player, who bid carefully and whose face betrayed her as soon as she had a poor hand. The Iron Bull stayed in until the very end, caring more about the sport of the game than the actual end result. Varric spent more time telling stories and making sure everyone had enough to drink than concentrating on the game at hand, and after a few resounding losses retired to the role of host. Cassandra did not have a single bone for deceit in her body, which, coupled with how poorly she remembered the rules of the game, made her easily the worst player at the table. Besides Cole, of course, who seemed to concentrate more on the faces on the cards than the actual game itself. He would often discard cards because he felt they were unhappy to be in his hand, much to Amalia’s exasperation.

Dorian and Leliana, however, were both very good - a fact which did not surprise Cullen. Leliana kept her emotions well hidden, and he struggled to guess the kind of hand she held until she revealed it upon the end of the game. She was careful, though - too careful, perhaps, to win any astoundingly large sums. Dorian was sly and tactical. Though Cullen never caught him in the act, he was sure the mage was cheating somehow. He always seemed to have just the right cards when it should not have been possible.

Dorian, Leliana and Amalia took the lion’s share of the first games, with Cullen and Josephine winning one seemingly by accident every now and again. The ale kept coming, and soon Cullen’s head was buzzing. It was a pleasant feeling - to be relaxed and laughing among those he was quickly coming to consider his friends.

As the evening and ale wore on, Varric started to talk about Hawke. With a sad twist of his mouth at first, but then more and more animatedly. Soon, he had the entire party laughing and hanging on his every word of more stories about their time in Kirkwall than Cullen thought was even possible.

A few hours later, Leliana gave up and, ignoring Josephine’s protests, retired to her study to work. Taking her cue, Blackwall reminded them of his presence to excuse himself with a mutter. It looked for a moment as though Dorian would take home the last winnings of the night, left unrivalled at the table.

And then Josephine hit her stride.

At first, Cullen thought it was pure luck. The ambassador, unsure as ever, called a large bid by the Iron Bull, and Dorian folded. Cullen was sure he had her beaten from the rueful turn of her mouth. When, three turns later, the Angel of Death surfaced and all cards were on the table, that rueful grimace turned into a smile of victory. Josephine had him soundly beaten. For the next three rounds, the diplomat took each game home.

“Well, Commander,” Josephine said after she had bested him that final time, too polite to truly gloat but unable to keep a small hint of satisfaction from entering her voice. “Do you have anything left to bet?”

“I do - _and_ I’ve figured out your tells, Lady Ambassador,” Cullen said with a grin. “I’ll have you next time.” That feigned downward cast of her mouth would not fool him again.

“Oh, Commander. Everyone knows a lady has no tells.”

“Now _this_ I want to see.” Amalia leaned back, smirking. She had been uncharacteristically quiet since she had folded two turns ago, clearly annoyed by her losing streak and ever-shrinking pile of winnings. “The Ambassador against the Commander. Varric, will you do the honors?”

With a small, sarcastic bow, the dwarf leaned over to deal the cards. When Cullen took his in hand, he had to work to keep his expression neutral. This was certain to be a winning hand, if only he could get a few key cards from the deck.

By the fifth turn, he had it. It was almost perfect. There was only one possible hand that he could lose to, and the small quirk of Josephine’s mouth told him she did not have it. He could go all in. They were drawing close to the end of the deck, and the Angel of Death would be drawn in this round or the next - this was his chance to break even for the night.

“I’ll raise ten silver.” Cullen threw the rest of his coins in the middle of the table.

“Ten? How terribly bold, Commander.” Josephine looked from her cards to him and then back again, clearly contemplating her next move. “I… I suppose I am still in, as well.”

Another discard and another draw for Josephine - and no Angel of Death. This was to be the final round, then. Cullen could almost see Josephine’s heart sink in her eyes before she forcefully straightened out her expression to attempt a bluff: “I would like to raise the bet to twenty silver, but it would seem you have no money left.”

From his seat at the end of the table, Varric chuckled. “That’s a bit harsh, Ruffles. Poor Curly just hasn’t had your luck.”

“I’ll add some reports to the bet,” Cullen offered. “I will write yours for a week.”

Amalia laughed. “I cannot possibly condone my advisors gambling away their duties, Cullen.”

Josephine shook her head. “Commander, please. Let us be serious. I could not possibly let you write my reports. However, as I am keen to continue the game - I shall accept a bet of all your clothes.”

“My _clothes_?”

Josephine nodded, a self-assured smile playing on her lips. She was so certain he would fold, and she would emerge victorious once again - with no winning cards in hand. Even in his inebriated state, Cullen was quite sure he had figured out her plan. He could win this round, if only he rose to her challenge. It was clear by the looks on everyone’s faces that none of them thought he would.

“You have yourself a deal, Ambassador.”

To Cullen’s immense enjoyment, Josephine covered her mouth in surprise, her eyes wide. Across from him, Amalia sputtered on the ale she had been just about to sip. Her eyes watering, she looked from him to Josephine and then back again, momentarily shocked out of her smirk.

“How daring of you, Cullen. I didn’t know you had it in you,” Dorian drawled, looking bored. He had clearly come to the same conclusion Cullen had: Josephine had to be bluffing.

Cassandra merely scoffed and turned back to her ale. She had long since given up interest in the game unfolding around her.

The next turn brought up the Angel of Death, as Cullen had suspected it would. It was time to put their cards on the table. Cullen presented his, unable to hold back the grin rising to his lips. He had this.

“That is a very good hand, Commander,” Josephine acquiesced - but her smile was not that of a person who had just been resoundingly bested. “However…”

As she showed the table her hand, the grin on Cullen’s features soured. The Iron Bull roared with laughter, Amalia actually _giggled_ , and Dorian rubbed his hands together and exclaimed in excitement. “Excellent. Well done, Josephine. You even fooled me.”

“Oh, sweet Maker. I cannot watch this.” Cassandra rolled her eyes and sighed heavily as she spoke. She pushed her chair back and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her to further highlight her disapproval.

“Well, Curly, a deal’s a deal,” Varric said, unable to keep the laughter from his voice.

Cullen struggled in vain to keep the color from rising to his cheeks. “You were bluffing,” he accused Josephine.

“That is the nature of the Wicked Grace, Commander. Now, I believe we had an accord?”

Cullen gritted his teeth. They did, in fact, have an accord. He kicked off his boots with a little more force than necessary, then picked them up and placed them on the table in front of Josephine. When he hesitated, she arched her eyebrows to urge him to continue. He unclasped his cloak and placed it on top of his boots, followed by his shirt and belt. When his removal of his shirt exposed the raw flesh of his neck, he saw Dorian and Amalia exchange a meaningful glance and resolutely ignored them.

Finally, he stood up, his hand on the top button of his trousers.

“Come on, Commander. You can’t keep us waiting all night.” Dorian sounded positively gleeful.

“Go on, Curly!”

“It comes off. I didn’t know it came off.” Cole had grabbed Cullen’s cloak from the pile of clothes on the table and was turning it in his hands in awe. “Does the rest come off too?”

“It will,” the Iron Bull assured him.

Amalia was conspicuously silent, but he could feel her eyes on him. He looked over to see her teeth sunk into her lower lip, her gaze trained on his hand where it grasped the buttons of his trousers. Her guards lowered by ale, she was so… _obvious_ in her thoughts. A flush of heat coursed through him at the thought, and he looked away pointedly, pushing it from his mind. That would most certainly not help him now.

“Commander,” Josephine drew his attention back to the situation. “If you would.” She gestured to his hands, and before he could falter again he forced himself to unbutton his trousers and push both them and his smallclothes down off his hips in one swift motion. He stepped out of the pile of clothes and lifted them onto the table with the rest of his attire.

The tavern really wasn’t quite as warm as it had felt when he’d been wearing all his clothes - though Cullen wasn’t quite sure if his hair was standing on end due to the temperature or the current situation.

Dorian whistled. “Well, well, well. Do tell me if you ever tire of your dear commander, Amalia. I’d be more than happy to take him off your hands.”

“Hey, Vint! I’m right here,” the Iron Bull protested with a laugh, and Dorian smirked.

Cullen sat down, red-faced in earnest now. He refused to meet the gazes he could feel on him, concentrating instead on staring at his own hands and thinking about the uncomfortably cold and coarse surface of the wooden bench beneath his bare rear.

“I think the show’s over,” Varric said, perhaps sensing Cullen’s misery. “This has been fun. Try to remember that you are allowed to have fun every once in a while. That’s what this evening was all about.”

“Varric’s right. It is time for us to retire. Though I do have one last request…” Cullen could hear the smile in Amalia’s voice. “Josephine, what do you want for the cloak?”

“The cloak, Inquisitor?”

“Cullen’s cloak. I’ll give you five silver for it.”

“What? You can’t just -”

“I believe she just did, Commander. We have a deal, Inquisitor. Maker knows I wouldn’t want it anyway. Has it ever been washed?”

Cullen looked up to see Amalia dropping some coins in Josephine’s outreached palm and taking her prize from Cole.

“A pleasure doing business with you, Inquisitor.” With a last triumphant smile, Josephine gathered her cards and coins and the pile of Cullen’s clothes and turned toward the door. “Good night. This has been an enjoyable evening. I do hope we do it again sometime.”

“How am I supposed to make it back to my tower without any clothes?”

“ _Very quickly_ ,” Dorian suggested as he, too, got up, his cloak in hand. “I do believe it is still snowing.”

“Try not to get _too_ cold, Commander,” were the Iron Bull’s parting words as he followed Dorian and Josephine out the door.

After Varric had also bid them goodnight and left, Cole in tow, Cullen looked around to find himself alone with Amalia. She was still sitting across from him, her eyes fixed on his bare body, her mouth ever so slightly open.

The expression in her eyes set his stomach fluttering. He cleared his throat, and she snapped out of her stare to meet his gaze. The corner of her mouth turned up in a smile. “Remind me to thank Josephine for this tomorrow.”

“Amalia, please. As if…” Cullen took a deep breath, trying to calm the tangle of thoughts in his mind. The ale still buzzing around his head was not helping with the endeavor. “As if I need any help embarrassing myself around you.”

She laughed, and despite himself Cullen felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth in response. “I… I don’t suppose you’ll give me my cloak back.”

“It’s not your cloak anymore, is it?” Amalia folded the cloak and tucked it in the crook of her arm. “I paid five silver for this, after all… though Maker knows why. One would at least expect to get a _clean_ cloak for that price.”

“Amalia, it’s snowing outside.”

Ale clearly made Amalia more callous about his well-being than she normally would have been. “Then I suppose Dorian’s right. You’d better be quick.”

With a deep breath, Cullen pushed himself up off the bench… and _ran_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taken a while to update again, because I have once again been fussing. I am a fussy writer; that cannot be helped. Though all your lovely comments and kudos make me fuss considerably less, and for each and every one I am so very thankful. <3 A special thanks to [alacarton](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alacarton/pseuds/alacarton), who helped me hammer out the more difficult passages in this chapter. (ILY BB. <3)
> 
> And, once again, if you enjoyed this chapter or any of the ones before it and can spare the time and energy, I would really love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> UNSURPRISINGLY, I ALSO HAVE SOME COMMISSIONS TO SHARE! I just can't get over how amazingly these awesome artists have brought Amalia to life. I am crying a little bit still. Ahhhh. I think I'm addicted to commissions and I'm surprisingly okay with this.
> 
> By the absolutely fuck-off amazing [@vjatoch](http://vjatoch.tumblr.com). This one is just... this is 100% how I see Amalia in my head, and I cannot get over the fact that vjatoch was able to make that into an image that I could share with the rest of the world.  
> 
> 
> And by the glorious, glorious [@xla-hainex](http://xla-hainex.tumblr.com), doing the Maker's work with amazing art, as always!  
> 


	33. Trial

Cullen spent the next few days attempting to avoid everyone who knew about his unfortunate gambling incident. As was to be expected, this proved an impossible task - Varric had seen to that. Time and time again, Cullen entered the barracks or walked up to a training ring to find a group of his men huddled together, red-faced and stifling their laughter.

From past experience, Cullen knew the gossip would make the rounds and then die down, and it wouldn’t take long. This knowledge did not stop him from being sullen and bad-tempered about it, however. As it was, he resolved to leave the majority of his training duties to his lieutenants for the time being, staying away from the men and concentrating instead on his advisory tasks. It would not do for him to let his poor humor about his own unfortunate lack of judgment affect the decisions he made in training regimens. Besides, there was a lot to be done elsewhere. They were due to leave for the Winter Palace in just three days’ time - as Josephine constantly reminded him in the midst of her efforts to get him to visit the tailor to finalize his garments for the ball. So far, he had managed to escape that particular trap with one convenient excuse after another - but he didn’t expect his good luck to last long. The thought did nothing to improve his poor humor.

Of course, had Cullen wished to avoid the gossip entirely, spending more time with Leliana and Josephine around the war table was an unstrategic decision at best. His two co-advisors were ruthless with their jibes, not to mention unwilling to let the matter drop - or they would have been, were it not for Amalia. After Cullen flushed at a sly comment from Leliana for what must have been the fifth time, she took pity on him and brought the teasing to an end with a simple command: “Enough. Concentrate.”

As usual, once Amalia gave a direct order, no one argued. Leliana and Josephine turned to other tasks, and their meeting resumed its regular course. The grateful look Cullen shot Amalia was met with a sly grin, its meaning clear as day: even if she made sure everyone else stopped teasing him, _she_ certainly would not. Cullen sighed, but resigned himself to that fate. At least Amalia only teased him in private.

The next day, the barracks were abuzz with new gossip - two of Leliana’s scouts had inadvertently set fire to a broom closet under the most suspicious circumstances. Cullen’s error in judgment was all but forgotten in the haste to share this new information; normalcy could resume. He could finally work out his annoyances in the underground winter training rings of Skyhold in peace.

He had only just settled into that familiar pattern when his efforts were interrupted by a surprising visitor.

“Care for a partner that hits back?” a gruff voice asked behind him.

Cullen turned around to see Blackwall leaning on the racks of practice swords by the door, mace and shield in hand. The Warden looked much better than when Cullen had last seen him; his cuts were neatly scabbed over, and the bruises mottling his skin had faded from angry red and purple to a peculiar shade of yellow. Judging by the way he clutched his shield, his shoulder had been healed so that he was capable of wielding arms once more. The bridge of his nose still jutted out at an awkward angle; by the looks of things, it would never be straight again.

“Are you recovered?” Cullen looked him up and down, trying and failing to hide his attempt to appraise the older man’s condition.

“Well enough.” The Warden, taciturn as he always was with Cullen, merely grunted and moved toward him, not waiting for any further acceptance of his offer.

Cullen motioned for the Warden to enter one of the training rings before following; if he felt well enough to spar, so be it. It was always more useful to train with a partner than with a dummy. “We’ll stop for frequent breaks,” he said as an afterthought, in an attempt to tactfully take into account the older man’s recent injuries.

Blackwall didn’t reply - instead, he suddenly swung his mace at Cullen’s head so that he was forced to yank up his shield and deflect the blow with a resounding crash. And so the sparring began.

It wasn’t long until Cullen gave up any pretense of taking it easy on Blackwall. The man was a skilled fighter; there was absolutely no doubt about that. But, even more so than his skill, what unsettled Cullen was the confusing fervor with which the man fought - one that did not match the situation. This was practice, and yet Blackwall seemed to be in it for the kill. Blow after blow he aimed at the most sensitive parts of Cullen’s unarmored body: his stomach, his neck, his head, then his stomach again. Before he knew it, Cullen was breathing hard, forced on the defensive more than the attack.

“Nice one,” Cullen grunted after yet another hard blow fell on his shield. Blackwall didn’t reply. It was like talking to a brick wall. Cullen took a step back, trying to diffuse the situation - but Blackwall didn’t back down. There was a hard glint in his eye as he once again swung the mace at Cullen’s head, advancing as he retreated.

Cullen knew he could be injured, potentially seriously, should he fail to deflect even a single blow. Even a blunted mace was still enough of a weapon to hurt considerably when swung with such fury. What’s more, Blackwall didn’t seem to care about that at all - quite the opposite. The warrior’s mouth was set in a hard line, his jaw clenched from the zeal of his onslaught.

This had to stop. Blackwall was getting too intense.

Cullen ducked down to dodge yet another blow, then, in a sudden burst of inspiration, swung his shield at the older man’s knees. It was not a dignified move, but it proved successful - Blackwall lost his balance and fell backwards, hitting the ground with a grunt. Before he could get up, Cullen was on his feet again, his sword pointed at the Warden’s throat. “Yield?”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Slowly, the earlier fire dimmed from Blackwall’s eyes. Behind his beard, his expression was unreadable - but Cullen could almost feel the resentment radiating off the Warden.

“Yield,” Blackwall finally grunted.

Cullen reached down to help Blackwall back on his feet. “I apologize - that was underhanded of me. You’re excellent with a mace.”

Instead of accepting, Blackwall merely pushed his hand away and clambered up under his own power. His eyes were focused intently on something behind Cullen.

Cullen spun around to see Amalia leaning against the wall by the door. She had, by all appearances, been watching them for some time. “Blackwall, I thought we’d agreed you were to rest before training again,” she said quietly, with no less than a hint of steel in her tone.

Blackwall squared his shoulders and straightened up to his full height. “Yes, my lady,” he said, meeting the Inquisitor’s gaze head on. The cold nature of his reply took Cullen by surprise - it was a far cry from the camaraderie he was used to seeing between Warden and Inquisitor. “You’ll do, Commander.” Blackwall had picked up his mace and shield and moved toward the door as he spoke.

Cullen met the grudging admission with a curt nod, and then Blackwall was gone.

Amalia watched him go, her face impassive until she turned back to Cullen. “Did I miss something?”

“Not unless I did. We were just sparring,” he said with a shrug. “Warden Blackwall didn’t believe his injuries were still severe enough to stop him from training.”

Amalia tilted her head slightly and raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. Clearly, his slight deception was not lost on her, but she decided not to press the matter further. Instead, she changed tack. “I have something for you.”

“Do you?”

Amalia crossed the room to him, pulling her hand out from behind her back to reveal a familiar, fur-lined cloak. “I thought you might want this back. It’s getting a bit cold.”

“Thank you.” Surprised, Cullen took the cloak, tucking it under his arm with a wry smile. “I’m afraid I don’t have any coin with me. Five silver was the asking price for this, was it not?”

“There’s no need to be snarky,” Amalia said with a laugh. “It’s not my fault Josephine accepted such a low price for your beloved cloak.”

“It’s not that I love it - it’s just that it’s my only cloak. Winter in the Frostbacks has a way of making you miss your clothes when they’re taken from you.” Cullen grinned.

“Well, I do apologize for depriving you of your cloak.”

“And I for depriving you of your five silver.”

“That’s quite alright. I don’t need the money. Nobility, remember? Though I suppose you could always pay me back in the form of those swordsmanship lessons you once promised me.”

“You have yourself a deal.” Cullen draped his cloak over the sword rack nearby, then flipped the training sword still clutched in his hand and offered it to Amalia hilt-first.

She looked at him dubiously. “What, _now_? I wasn’t implying we should do this _now_.”

“Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”

Amalia shook her head.

“Nor do I. And I did promise you I’d teach you, didn’t I?”

Amalia still didn’t take the proffered sword. “I don’t exactly need a blade to fight, you know,” she reminded him - as if he could forget she was a mage.

Cullen chuckled. “Effectively wielding a sword, even a magical one, requires upper arm strength. I think you should train with an actual blade.”

Amalia still looked disbelieving, but seemed to deem his logic sound. She grasped the hilt of the sword apprehensively. Her eyes widened as Cullen let go of the blunted blade, and the sword almost dropped from her loose grasp. “It’s _heavy._ ”

“It’s not very heavy - but it isn’t a magical blade, I’ll grant you,” Cullen said, amused, and reached over to the sword rack by the wall to take another sword for himself. “Now, your grasp. It leaves… something to be desired. Hold the hilt more tightly.” Cullen knocked his blade against hers to illustrate his point, and Amalia had to scramble to keep her hold. “See? A loosely held blade benefits only your enemy. Good; that’s much better.” He turned his hand, showing her where he placed his fingers on the hilt to keep his grip steady. She rolled her eyes, but mirrored his movement anyway.

“Good. Now you might be able to keep hold of your sword in a fight.”

Amalia looked at him a little sharply in reaction to the superiority in his tone.

Cullen shrugged. “I’m sorry _._ I usually train recruits.”

“That’s quite alright, _Commander_.” A smile tugged at the corner of Amalia’s mouth.

“Thank you, _Inquisitor_. Now, as I was saying… Your stance is a little crude. You want to present a smaller target - face your opponent at an angle.” As he spoke, Cullen moved to her side, taking her gently by the shoulder and turning her upper body. “You have a barrier, but I’ve been hit through a barrier before. It’s still jarring. And I believe you expend energy with every hit?”

“That is correct.”

“You want to conserve energy wherever possible. One fight isn’t long, but a battle may very well be.”

As he spoke, Cullen demonstrated the position. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Amalia attempt to imitate him, but her hand faltered. Even the light practice sword was too heavy for her untrained arm.

“Keep your sword up.” Cullen pointed his blade at her neck. “You’ll be unprotected otherwise.”

Rolling her eyes, Amalia lifted her blade to knock his away.

“Good. Now, I believe you are ready to attempt to hit a target.”

Cullen and Amalia moved to the training dummy, and for the next half hour they took turns swinging their blades at it: Cullen demonstrating, Amalia mimicking. Unfortunately, it soon became even more painfully clear that Amalia had never done any physical work. A lifetime of nobility and living in a Circle had left her soft. It wasn’t long before her arm was trembling from just the effort of holding up the sword.

To her credit, Amalia refused to give in. Cullen could see her biting her lip, straining against the tremor in her muscles. It was not in her to admit failure. Though she must have known he could see her struggling, it only pushed her to try twice as hard. Cullen couldn’t help but feel a surge of affection for Amalia. She was absolutely dauntless.

In the end, however, he took pity on her - though he was careful not to let it show on his face. “I think that’s enough for today.”

Amalia set the sword aside almost immediately, barely concealing a sigh of relief. Cullen bit back his smile. Not being immediately good at something was bound to annoy her more than she was willing to let on.

“You did well. We’ll make an excellent swordsman of you yet.”

“Don’t flatter me.” Amalia sat down on a nearby bench and patted the seat next to her. “That was… not as easy as I thought it would be.”

“Were you not surrounded by templars at Ostwick? Did you think they trained because they had nothing else to do?” Cullen asked, joining her on the bench.

The wry smile that touched Amalia’s lips told him all he needed to know.

“I see.” He chuckled, more amused than hurt by her assumption. “Why go through with it at all? You don’t have to learn any of this. You’re already an excellent elemental mage.” One look at her was enough to prove the truth of his statement. If his years as a templar had taught him anything, it was to gauge the danger a mage posed before they got too close - and, with Amalia, he had known from the moment they met that he would not wish to be up against her in a fight.

Amalia paused, suddenly serious. “It feels very strange discussing this with you. Are you sure you won’t… find it difficult to deal with me afterwards?” Her eyes found his, searching his gaze for something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“You can tell me anything, Amalia.”

“I have always been a very offensive mage,” she finally said after a moment of silence, her tone measured. She was trying to gauge his reaction before continuing.

Cullen took her hand in his and met her eyes with a smile. It was a genuine one - even years and years of training, of trauma, of dislike and snap judgments were no match for his feelings for Amalia. He loved her - and even before he had loved her, he had _trusted_ her. There was no doubt in his mind that, even though she could hurt him should she wish to, he would never have to fear her. Nor would anyone else - at least, anyone undeserving.

Whatever she saw in his eyes prompted her to continue. “I’ve never been able to _protect_. I can cast a barrier well enough, but that’s it. I’ve never been able to… to help people. My skills do not lend themselves to restorative magic easily.” A shadow passed over her expression again, and he wondered at the memory passing through her mind - though even as he did so, he decided he would probably rather not know.

“A strong offense can be just as effective at protecting others as a good defense.”

“Did the templars teach you that?” Despite her harsh words, there was a hint of amusement in her voice.

Cullen leaned back against the wall with a sigh. “I suppose they did. That wasn’t exactly what I meant, though. I meant that… you do. Help people, I mean. With everything you do. No one could think otherwise.”

Amalia smiled and squeezed his hand. “But I don’t protect them.”

“I disagree.”

“Not in the way I should. It hasn’t bothered me before, but now… with the Inquisition... it really feels like I need to be able to. And Vivienne said she would teach me. A class of protective magic based on offensive talents, if that makes any sense.”

Cullen nodded - his training as a templar had given him enough knowledge of magical theory to understand a simple enough magical concept.

“There’s so much at stake that I have to at least try.”

“I’ll give you that. We all have to try to better ourselves for this cause. It’s greater than all of us.”

His veiled reference to his lyrium withdrawal caught Amalia’s attention - as he had suspected it would. “How are you doing?” she asked softly.

“I’m… I’m fine,” he said. It was the truth - in a way. But not in the way that Amalia would approve of - and thus he hastened to add, “I’m expecting some setbacks.”

“Setbacks?”

“I didn’t take the felandaris this morning.”

“Oh.”

They fell silent for a while. Cullen could see Amalia thinking hard, her expression slowly changing from surprise to concern. Finally, she sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I know. It’s the right thing to do, stopping the felandaris. And I’m not sorry for telling you to do it. It could… it could kill you, if you don’t. But I still feel a little guilty. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy, or at least marginally content, before. And after you started the felandaris you have been. I hate to be the one to take it away from you.”

Cullen chuckled, then pressed a kiss to the top of Amalia’s head. “Some of that may very well be due to things other than the felandaris.”

“Oh?” Amalia lifted her head to look up at him with a smile. “I wonder what?”

He leaned down to brush his lips against hers. “I think you know.”

With a contented sigh, Amalia settled back against him. “I do. It’s nice to get a confirmation every now and again, though.”

Cullen lifted his arm to wrap it around her shoulder and pull her into a one-armed embrace. “I love you, Amalia. And I’ll help you in any way I can - with the swords and anything else that comes our way. You know that, right?”

“I know. And you know I’ll help you in turn.”

That night, Cullen’s nightmares returned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been working on this chapter for a month. I got stuck. I don't know why. I don't know how. But I got stuck. And I think it kind of shows. Here's hoping I get the groove back.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos and everything are **more** than appreciated - in this case, possibly even more so than usual, since I had to really really carve this chapter out of my flesh and bone and sweat and tears.  <3
> 
> Thank you to my beloved [alacarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alacarton/) and the ever-so-lovely [princessbatteringram](princessbatteringram.tumblr.com) for helping me out with this!
> 
> AND LOOK. THERE IS ART. ONCE AGAIN. THIS TIME, THE INEFFABLE [KAWEREEN](http://kawereen.tumblr.com) DREW CULLEN AND AMALIA. <3
> 
>  


	34. Rabbit

It was the third day on the road. Despite the fact that they were headed to a destination Cullen did not want to arrive at - and he was forced to spend hours upon hours in the saddle to get there - it was a relief to be out of Skyhold. The days before their departure had been hectic, to say the least, even with the combined efforts of all the advisors to make the process as painless as possible. Men had been chosen to accompany them, spies had been given instructions on how to infiltrate the ranks of the palace servants, a chain of command had been established to take care of Skyhold in their absence… and a plan for what they would do if they discovered an assassin in Halamshiral should have been decided on.

With the exception of the final - and possibly most important - task, everything had been settled in as orderly a fashion as could have been hoped for. When it came to the decisions that would have to be made at Halamshiral, however, they had reached the reluctant conclusion that it was a matter they could not possibly settle beforehand. They did not have nearly enough information at hand to even know what was going on behind the scenes at the Winter Palace, let alone decide what direction they would push an entire nation in if called upon. They would have to act in the moment, and act fast. Cullen had seen the worry in Leliana and Josephine’s eyes when they had finally said these words out loud in their last meeting before setting out for Orlais - but he wasn’t worried. Amalia could be trusted to make the right choice, and they would all be there to support her in it.

If only he could have been as confident in his own capabilities as he was in Amalia’s. Cullen sighed, wiping his brow and shifting in his saddle uncomfortably. He had been without the felandaris extract for four days now… and with each passing moment found himself wishing more and more fervently that he had never taken it in the first place. When he had never been without the withdrawal symptoms, it had been so easy to push them to the side and concentrate on other matters. He had gotten so used to them, suffering them in silence had become almost a second nature to him.

Now, however, after weeks of reprieve, Cullen was finding it much harder to accept the return of his fever and constant headache with any grace whatsoever. His temper was short and getting shorter; his ability to concentrate on anything for any length of time had fled; and, worst of all, he did not feel in _control_. He had gotten so used to feeling capable again. Losing that clarity of mind he had gained was worst of all.

Everyone had noticed, even those who did not know the reason for his sudden poor humor. Those that did watched him like hawks - Dorian and Amalia in particular. As was to be expected.

“You look terrible.” Cullen looked up to see Dorian spurring his little black mare forward to catch up with Trumpeter. He was looking at him thoughtfully, the concern not evident in his words present in his eyes.

Cullen grunted and turned away from him, feigning great interest in the winding road ahead of them. “I can’t say I feel very good, either.”

“Fever? Pain?”

“Yes. And yes.” Cullen didn’t see any reason to try and hide his discomfort. Dorian, much like Amalia, would see through him in a heartbeat anyway.

“I could cast the fever spell on you. It helped before, did it not?”

Cullen bit back another groan. Even though he knew Dorian was only trying to help, his incessant questions were grating on Cullen’s already shattered nerves. “I need to get used to it again.” He shook his head, wincing at the lance of pain behind his eyes as he did so.

Dorian must have noticed his shortness, and yet seemed entirely undeterred by it. “And the rash?”

Cullen pulled down the collar of his cloak in silent illustration, revealing the almost entirely healed skin of his neck.

“So it was the felandaris. As much as I usually enjoy being right,” Dorian said with a quiet chuckle, “in this one case only, I do wish I’d been mistaken. Believe what you will, but I don’t relish the thought of you being in pain.”

“Nor do I.” Amalia’s voice sounded behind them. Cullen and Dorian turned around to see Amalia spur Rabbit forward, then slow him down as he reached Trumpeter’s other side. She reached out and placed her hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

“I’ll survive,” Cullen said, more gruffly than he meant to. In his discomfort, it was a struggle to keep in mind that his current situation was not Amalia’s and Dorian’s fault. They’d only tried to help him - and had even succeeded in doing so, for a time. The felandaris being a failure was not on them. They had done nothing but caution him of its dangers. Any high hopes he had had for the substance had been of his own doing.

Cullen sighed, meeting Amalia’s gaze apologetically. She gave him a small, understanding smile, and he looked away again, a little chagrined by how well she knew him. He hadn’t told her about it, but he could sense that she knew how hopeless he felt. How happy he’d been to be able to function normally again. How horrible it felt to have all that taken from him in the span of just a few days. And, more than anyone, he knew she understood how frustrating it was to feel incompetent.

And it was only going to get worse. With every beat of his heart, more and more of the effects of the felandaris were driven from his blood. Soon, there would be none left at all. He would be right back where he started.

As lost in thought as he was, he wasn’t quite so out of it to miss Amalia giving Dorian a meaningful look. The Tevinter nodded in acknowledgement and reined in his mare, dropping back to strike up conversation with a less-than-thrilled Cassandra.

Cullen and Amalia continued forward side by side. They rode silently for a moment before Amalia spoke up.

“It’s nice to be out of Skyhold, isn’t it?”

Cullen nodded in agreement. They fell silent again, and he took a deep breath. It really was a beautiful day. The wintry sunlight was filtering through the thick evergreen canopy overhead. They would be out of the Frostbacks soon, and with each passing hour the snow around them was becoming more and more sparse. By the time they reached their intended campsite for the night, Cullen suspected the ground would be entirely bare. For now, however, the breeze blowing through the trees was crisp and cool, and refreshing against his fevered skin.

“Would you rather I leave you be?” Cullen turned to see Amalia looking at him, her eyes betraying what her voice did not. She was worried by his silence. A moment, two, passed as he tried to find the words to reply to her. He hadn’t quite managed it before she nodded, sighed and began to urge Rabbit forward to leave him to his brooding.

“No, wait.” Cullen spurred Trumpeter forward and reached out, catching her arm. Rabbit didn’t like the sudden movement and shied away, flicking his ears back and glaring balefully at Trumpeter. The old war horse seemed entirely unconcerned with the younger stallion’s bluster and continued to plod along, ears swiveling, listening happily to the peaceful sounds of the forest around them.

Amalia looked from her horse to Cullen’s, clearly amused, and patted the stallion’s golden neck affectionately. “My apologies. Rabbit’s a bit spirited. You were saying?”

“So I see.” Cullen managed a small grin before he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in consternation. “I just… I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Being… being in such a state. It’s not your fault. It’s unfair of me to hold… this… against you.”

“Yes, it is.” Amalia shrugged. “But understandable.” Her expression sombered again, and she caught his gaze and held it. “Are you… are you in a lot of pain?”

“No. Not yet.” But he would be, soon. The words hung in the air between them, unspoken.

This time, Amalia sighed and looked away. “I wish I could help.”

“There’s nothing to be done.”

“Even so.”

“Amalia,” Cullen said gently, and she looked back at him. “I’ll be alright. It’s nothing I haven’t been through before.”

Amalia nodded, but her eyes remained troubled, and she said nothing more. Cullen could have slapped himself for ruining her good spirits. “Why in the name of the Maker did you name your horse Rabbit?” Cullen blurted out the first thing he could think of to distract her.

Amalia laughed, taken by surprise by his abrupt change of subject. “It’s… for Aurelia, actually,” she admitted. “My sister, you know?” Cullen nodded, and Amalia continued: “Aurelia loved rabbits. And horses, for that matter. We would spend so much time in the stables, grooming our ponies and pestering the horsemaster to take us out for a ride. It was… it was something we always did together.”

Cullen chuckled. He could imagine them, two golden-haired, precocious little girls, running around the stables with their ponies, getting in the way of the stablehands who didn’t dare say anything about it to their lord.

“Her first pony was named Bunny. I teased her for it mercilessly, actually. What a stupid name for a pony, I said.” Amalia ran a hand through her hair with a sad smile. “I suppose Rabbit seemed somehow... appropriate.” Amalia scratched the stallion’s neck, and he shook his head and snorted appreciatively.

“It’s a very fitting name.”

“It really is.”

The conversation continued between them, flowing naturally from one subject to another.  Little by little, Cullen found his bad mood shifting, and by the time the sun began to set and they arrived at their intended campsite, he was in considerably better spirits. Amalia just had that effect on him.

It didn’t take the party long to set up camp, prepare and eat their evening meal and settle in for the night. Guard shifts had been established and chores divided up, and everyone bustled about their set duties with quiet determination, hoping to catch as much sleep as they could before the party set out again on the morrow. Within the hour, they had all retreated to their tents, with the exception of Cullen, who had promised to take the first guard shift of the night. He sat alone, staring into the flames of the campfire and trying to ignore the pounding in his head.

“Care for some company?”

Amalia appeared from behind a tent. Cullen half-forced a smile onto his face and nodded, motioning her to sit beside him. She complied, and then immediately reached over to take his hand and twine her fingers through his.

“Do you feel any better than you did earlier today?”

Cullen grunted noncommittally and shrugged.

“I’ll take that as a no.” She squeezed his hand.

“I’m just not used to it yet. It’s not nearly as bad as it was before the felandaris. I’ll live.”

“Dorian said you’d refused the fever spell.”

“I’m starting to wish I hadn’t,” Cullen admitted with a sigh. “I might be able to sleep tonight if I’d taken him up on the offer.”

“He’s not the only one who can help you with that, you know.”

“Do you know it?”

The corner of Amalia’s mouth quirked up in a slight smile. “I was the one who taught it to Dorian, actually. I didn’t think you’d accept it from me back when I found it. He’s better at it than me, of course, but I know the theory.”

Cullen looked at her, surprised. “Oh.”

“Can I?” As she spoke, Amalia lifted her free hand, a familiar green mist already shimmering in her palm. Cullen nodded, and she placed her hand gently on the side of his neck. The relief was almost immediate. The cool mist washed through his body, easing the tremor in his muscles. Even the throbbing in his temples ebbed. He took a deep breath, grateful for the respite.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Amalia lifted their linked hands to place a kiss on the back of his hand. “It’s amazing to me how comfortable you are with magic, you know.”

“Comfortable? With you, perhaps. And Dorian. With other mages...” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged again. “I’ve come to accept that magic is like a blade. It can be a force for good as well as evil - but I’m not entirely able to let go of my prejudices. I know it’s unworthy of me.”

“Even so.”

“And what about you? You seem comfortable enough around a templar.”

Amalia gave him a wry smile. “I thought you weren’t a templar anymore.”

Cullen chuckled. “A fair point.”

“Besides, there’s not much you can do to me without lyrium.” She nudged his side playfully, but then her expression sobered. “I was lucky, I suppose. Ostwick was one of the good ones. And after Aurelia...” She sighed. “Well, I needed to be there. In my case, the templars served a purpose.”

“Do they not normally serve a purpose?”

He could feel her tense beside him. “I seem to remember you telling me your former Knight-Commander tranquilized mages for even lesser offenses than what happened to poor Maddox.”

“She was… misguided.”

“And yet you followed her. You all did. She wouldn’t have been able to do what she did if you hadn’t.”

“I did. I’m not proud of the man I was then.”

“But you still believe in the order, after everything you’ve seen?”

“I’d like to believe that Knight-Commander Meredith was the exception, not the rule. I can’t say I’ve been to enough circles to be able to speak from experience.”

“You must have heard the stories. As secluded as Ostwick was, they reached even our ears.”

“I have.” Cullen sighed and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “The order is… not what I once believed it to be. I don’t know if the order I thought I was joining ever really existed. But once you’re a part of it…”

“Once you’re a part of it, you’re trapped?”

“They hold your lyrium leash. It’s difficult to leave. Impossible, even.”

“And yet you managed. You could help others do the same.”

“Could I?” The laugh that fell off Cullen’s lips was without true mirth. “It doesn’t look like I’m having much success.”

“It does to me,” she said gently. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am.”

“It will get better. Until then…”

“Until then, I’ll deal with it.”

“ _We’ll_ deal with it,” Amalia corrected, leaning her head against his shoulder. He turned to press a kiss onto her forehead, touched by her support. A mere few years ago, he could never have imagined that his life would come to this. Here he was, being comforted by a mage, an _apostate_ , whilst suffering from the effects of leaving the Templar Order behind.

He huffed in amusement, and Amalia turned her face upwards to look at him. “What?”

“Two years ago, could you have imagined that you’d ever find yourself where you are today?”

“With a magical green mark on my hand, being hailed as the savior of Thedas, out to destroy an evil darkspawn magister before he creates enough rifts into the Fade to swallow the world?” Amalia rolled her eyes. “Not at all. And you’re a surprise, too,” she appended.

Cullen chuckled.

“What about you? No longer a templar, in love with a mage, commander of an army…”

“It’s a slight deviation from my plan, I’ll admit.”

“A welcome one, I should hope.”

“What else?” He leaned down to press his lips to hers. She returned the kiss eagerly, reaching up to wrap her hand around the back of his neck and twine her fingers in his hair.

“I’m glad to see our guards so hard at work!” said a sudden voice from behind them, and they broke apart to turn around. Dorian sauntered into view, followed closely by the Iron Bull. “Really helps me feel safe here in the wilderness.”

“Sorry, boss. Commander.” The qunari nodded his head, first to Amalia and then to Cullen, the grin on his face at odds with his apology. The duo sat down on the ground next to them, forming a half-circle around the fire.

“How’s the head, Cullen?” Dorian asked.

“Fine.”

“Really? Because you look absolutely dreadful. It’s like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Thank you, Dorian. That’s very kind.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Leave him alone, Dorian,” Amalia chimed in. She squeezed Cullen’s hand, then lowered her voice to continue. “You _could_ go to sleep, you know. We can take over from here.”

“It’s my shift,” Cullen protested half-heartedly, though he knew that the suggestion had been more of a command. And, truth be told, he also knew he should take every chance he could to sleep while he still could. It wouldn’t be long until the nightmares made it nearly impossible. Perhaps, if he was wise enough to go into that stage of his withdrawal well-rested this time, he could stave off the hallucinations for longer.

Dorian arched his brow and made a shooing motion with his hand.

“Alright, I’ll go,” Cullen acquiesced with a sigh, extricated his hand from Amalia’s and got up to leave. “Good night.”

As he walked to his tent, he heard Dorian quietly ask Amalia, “how is he really doing?”

He didn’t stop to hear her reply. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who leaves kudos and comments. <3 They absolutely mean the world to me in continuing to push this project closer and closer to its goal! I cherish each and every one. Every time you leave a comment, you feed an attention-starved writer. Or something. :D I love you guys. <3
> 
> And, of course... What would an update be without some more commissions? I swear to all that is holy and pure, I am addicted, and I absolutely love it.
> 
> by the incredible [learielle](https://learielle.tumblr.com)  
> 
> 
> by the wonderful [elevanetheirin](http://elevanetheirin.tumblr.com)  
> 
> 
> by the indescribable [shayasanya](http://shayasanya.tumblr.com)  
> 
> 
> I cannot recommend any of these incredible artists enough. What wonderful art commissions. I cannot even. Ahhhhh.


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